Through Lit Windows Dwell

Sunday 12 August 2018

The Black Dog

"And yet he was not happy – nor comfortable. There was a hard, opposing core in him, that neither the whisky nor the woman could dissolve or soothe, to-night. It remained hard, nay became harder and more deeply antagonistic to his surroundings, every moment. He recognized it as a secret malady he suffered from: this strained, unacknowledged opposition to his surroundings, a hard core of irrational, exhausting withholding of himself. Irritating, because he still wanted to give himself. A woman and whisky, these were usually a remedy – and music. But lately these had begun to fail him. No, there was something in him that would not give in – neither to the whisky, nor the woman, nor even the music. Even in the midst of his best music, it sat deep established in him, this obstinate black dog, and growled and wasnever cajoled. He knew of its presence – and was a little uneasy. For, of course, he wanted to let himself go: to feel rosy and loving and all that. But at the very thought, the black dog showed its teeth."

Amser (o) Ansawdd

Taith diweddaraf; trwy synidau o ewyllys rhydd, hunaniaeth, perthyn, perthnasau, planedau, ffeministiaeth, rhyw, iechyd y meddwl / seiclothymia...

Monday 6 July 2015

Jusqu' ici tout va bien...

That night we talked about being and listening, partially; In the pines.

Before, I've said I couldn't have adequately explained the emotions contained in that night.

Compared to previous years, I've "blogged" a lot of late.

I think it's been good for me but I also feel like my life has been getting away from me too, like, writing a little and thinking a whole lot more outside of that little, describing and distancing, has skewed my perspective, a little.

That thinking I can capture so much means I end up missing more.

I'm even wary sometimes of sharing and writing as distractions from solving or working (on issues, problems, whatever).

Even right this instant.

As though, if I mention a problem, a philosophical, emotional or romantic quandary, some major character defects or little snippets from breakdowns and break-ups, as though, the mere act of alluding to my awareness of these situations or flaws is in itself enough.

"It's ok guys, I know I'm a mess".

Without actually cleaning house.

But, you know reader, that really is "ok".

I'm always so hard on myself, so exacting in even the most banal of instances, "Helen you must excuse yourself". I have to explain my reasons for doing everything so much so that the thought of having to constantly condone gets in the way of any potentially sanctioned action.

Living.

I end up with pale imitations, swift snapshots shared, hasty, scant solace.

Like, I almost give up the exercise of clearly explaining or speculating with any sort of intellect because I assume it will take so long, so much effort and will, inevitably (- due to the fact that it's for "me"), be worthless.

If nobody else benefits but me, how can I keep up this selfishness?!

That is mad though. Reader. If I'm a little better today than I was yesterday so shall you be. If someone shared somethings so personal and considered, not necessarily with me in mind but shared with mine nonetheless, how thrilling is that?!

It's valuable.

So long as we all are, it is.

All will be.

So, now, today, in this internet thicket, we've come yet again to a clearing - a continuation, more attempts necessary and no demands requisite.

Trying to make sense.

Seeing the wood from the trees, even though, there are sometimes it all looks to be weeds.

I am 26 today.

No longer a "Young Person", goodbye 16-25, we hadn't time to acquaint ourselves proper but so it goes. And now, this afternoon, I'm still making sense of time and it's portioned mysteries.