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[dreamingwithfairies]

I'm thinking about progress and how far I've come in the past year but it's still not good enough. I'm not good enough, not even close. It's like I'm racing against myself and I can barely catch my breath. My sense of self is unstable, it shifts whether I want it to or not, and I'll have to wait over a month before anyone can tell me why I'm like this. I focus on peace yet hatred, disgust and anger are knocking on my door again, and this virulent ache that makes me want to fucking scream. 

I want to dissolve. I want to forget I exist for one damn moment. I'm so sick of myself.

Amsterdam has been on my mind. I have to go back. I have to. I want to get away. Every day I drive somewhere away, farther and farther. Filling up petrol is becoming a nuisance. For brief moments beauty and peace find me. It's like coming up for air after drowning. The way the light shifts, the fog rolls, the wind smells, the trees whisper, the crows fly. I love driving on country roads because I'm alone most of the time, but my mind is full. Full of garbage that weighs me down. I hate the chatter of the others, their questions, their awareness of me. I'm tired with humanity - the animals comfort me, relieve me. I want to run away, disappear, leave everything, sell everything, start a new life. Maybe that's it, that's the leap. It sounds so cruel and selfish when I think about my family and friends but honestly, deep inside, I can't stand it. I always hated "community" as a concept in general. I feel like I'm being pulled in so many directions, at the end of each one is a duty and an expectation. I feel things so strongly and my aching intesity is amplified in the presence of others, how much like a creature I am, not a person. How alone I feel around others. How I always feel on the verge of letting something inside me snap the chains of sensibility and coherence. How I wish to be wild, my hair windswept, my cheeks flushed, my boots dirty. I need an outlet but it's all so methodical, so mindful, I can't surrender. I weigh my heart like a pound of flesh. There is a sore spot in my mouth and my tongue keeps pressing against it, feeling its unfamiliar texture, as if expecting a hole or a tear to open up, as if I'm made of paper.

I saw a wild rabbit today. I saw a wild deer. In the ruins of Baltinglass Abbey there were signs of Morrígan about, guarding the dead. I drive a little too fast, at times recklessly. Within a year I'll probably know this country like the back of my hand. It feeds something in me I don't have a name for yet. One of these days I'll go for a drive so long I won't come back home. That's my secret fantasy. 
At night, I'm going to drive to a secluded spot in the mountains far from civilization and scream until my voice fucking breaks.