Girl Half Empty

//What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in//
- Simone de Beauvoir
/June winner of the diary competition/


45. //Our memories are recorded In seashells To show and tell The lessons learned In these heavens and hells//

7th February

Turns out I’m a tidal sort of entity.

A daily spin cycle set in motion not by a machine but by recurrence. It’s February and every day I see the adverts for September’s County Times still pinned up outside the paper shop, as wrinkled as my dad’s forehead. I think about how much the world felt like used tin foil in September and how much it still feels like used tin foil now and I re-read myself without having much to add although the days go through me and through me until I can look back a year and read //7th February: Am still getting used to the fact that it is already February, am not getting used to the cold although it has been determinedly arctic since Christmas.//

I rise and I sink, dragging pieces of other people’s lives with me and spitting out my broken teeth when they float to the surface.

The end of time ripples closer with each wave but I can’t seem to uproot myself from the beaches and the clifftops, wondering which comes first – the erosion of those I rub shoulders with or the breaking-down of whatever’s left in me.

Each academic accolade the seagulls throw me makes me clamour a little more for the mountains or any of those grass-is-always-greener worlds I don’t have keys for. The more the wind swells my writing ability the less I find myself able to care.

Asking questions that are slippery and intangible:

//Which of the three kills faster: dementia, cancer, motor neurone disease?//

//How many people do I tell that for each inch of me I dance away I stand gasping on the bathroom scales longing to claw it back?//

//Where is the picture for the jigsaw puzzle behind my eyes?//

//What words would I be left with if we weren’t allowed to repeat ourselves?//

//When do worries become habits and habits become obsessions?//

I’m losing the ends. Knotting the wrong things back together. Ballet re-stitches my life in a way that makes it easier to handle.

I think so much that my head keeps falling open and know so little that my hands haven’t learnt how to stop shredding things but I do know that analogies are only as strong as the number of chain links they’ve been threaded with. So I’ll say this for my metaphor: I’d go wherever the moon sends me.

My love letters to the night sky are the only things that keep me framed.

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