Illusions of Grandeur

I came home from work yesterday afternoon, got into bed, and pretty well stayed here through to now. I've spent the weekend looking through old photographs on my little external hard drive. I'm in a bit of a rut you see, and I've been looking back through the ruts of my past, more importantly the little lights that lead me out of aforementioned ruts, or at least illuminated them better for the comfort of my stay... I don't have 'proper' internet yet, I've uploaded all of these via my (sporadic signal of my) tethered phone. I don't know what this does to my 'limits', but what matters of what I don’t know? Some certainly.. I’m rambling, I had planned a lucid literary dissection of my thoughts, my ups and downs, they whys and hows, entrapments and escapes… In short I didn’t get around to it, fuelled by one apple, three films (Adam’s Apples at 8am, M at midday and The Brothers Bloom a couple of hours ago) and some Scott Fitzgerald shorts, I had no further mental energy to expend purifying the thoughts that are a deluge in my mind.

I’m sorry to be boring and self centered (but, it is my blog so it’s quite unavoidable, unfortunately), but I’ve noticed recently that made a return somewhat to my old self-loathing ways. Not the acid in throat fire in eyes hatred of my younger nights, but certainly a big malicious contempt has crept its way in. I can’t let that happen again. On my way out before I started to close the door on myself? No thank you.

I’ve got this rash on my forearms from rubbing back clay this past week, and the burn of it against my rubbing clothes reminds me of the paper-cut-like tear-forming nagging and stinging the morning after a night of cutting. To my surprise and shame, far from being troubled by awful memories, I feel a strange nostalgia. Nostalgia over an old coping method, that wasn’t coping at all, one that brought along a whole host of it’s own negative circles of thought and shame. So maybe this is what these little pictures are, coping mechanisms, I’ll take celebratory over self-flagellation any day.

I’d rather not be constantly looking backwards when forwards is where I want to be headed, but such is my character, perhaps I can form a new habit of looking back at things that don’t make me wince, a new direction for my reflective proclivities.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about some of the books I’ve read recently, the characters I’ve lived with briefly. Hopefully.

These aren't in much order, most occurred end of 2010 through 2011...

I any case, sometimes there was colour, and sometimes it came from me.

Goodnight.