I Don’t Know What To Call This

I don’t know what to call this ‘existence,’ let alone what to call this blog post. Last night my Mother recommended I sleep with a rose quartz near my heart to help me heal. So I went to bed at some fucking stupid time (nothing new there) with a palm sized crystal clutched tightly against my chest. Thankfully, I slept the sleep of the dead. I’ve been wanting nothing more for weeks, as I’ve been tortured with the same kind of dreams over and over and over again. Dreams that have had me waking up with wet eyes and saturated pillows. Dreams that have haunted me long after I’ve left my bed and moved across the hall into another room to type, to stare out of the window, to try to breathe. The type of dreams where I’m abandoned and left to pick up the scattered shards of my porcelain heart.

rose_635762085283176994_Afterlight_Edit Candles are essential now. I need one lit when I write. I need one lit when I read. I need that little flickering flame and the comforting smell of melting wax. I would carry a candle in my pocket and take it with me everywhere if I could.

My concentration is weak again, and I’m fucking exhausted just a few hours after getting out of bed. Depression rapes you of energy. The smallest thing, like writing this blog post or answering an email is a massive achievement. There’s so much I want to write. There’s so much backed up in my head. But this will do for now. It’s all I can manage. I will leave you with this song by Lykke Li. I’ve been listening to her all day.

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