This is still me.

I am a net trying to catch the foamy waves that are my thoughts. These thought-objetcts that are washing away by my actions of trying to catch them!. I am creating yet more swell running from one room to the next getting ready to get into bed and write my beautiful words that just came to me and are already polluted by the mundane. But I stem from the mundane. I can not extract myself from the mundane and am exacerbated by it.

Some people learn unnatachement through people. I have. But I have also learnt it. Am learning it. Through objects. The word-objects that I have lost in the flight when I lost my mind for a few minutes, --too high fever, too many drugs the night before, too many late night the months before-- a moment of forgetfulness and my book gone. 75% of the best words I've objectified, lost. Well, lost to me, found to someone else. I'm calmer now than a few minutes ago in my frenzied typing, my writing urge of the sea has just softened and I'm tempted to change the tab. Mundane. Hand ache. To much time on the computer at work. Mundane. My life is so less important to write these last few days. My days similar my thoughts similarer.
I'm calm about my book lost, my head is calm, my heart, doesn't beat any faster thinking about the loss, just a little heavier. I'm gently mourning the loss by remembering that I am who I am because I created those writings, they do not exist physically anymore but I still reap their fruit.

So what is the point of my writing ? The answer is mingled up in an urge to write for myself because I honestly believe these thoughts are my most sparkling possessions and every one that flows away is a terrible loss, and because I honestly believe there is truth in them. I need people to know the world as it is lived by me.

Watching a documentary about a science base in Antarctica, where a max of 90 people live there in the 3 months of summer, and sadly this year, none will be able to stay the winter. The people were sad. Sad to leave their home where no money flows, and where you don't have to queue in line to get anything. I recognise this sadness, the sadness of leaving their home caused by the joy of having found one. A home as in a physical place and as in a home of people.

So I write because it's a long rope linking my many lives together, showing me that although I'm not home now, I'm home in myself, and I'll go back to home someday. Showing me also, that whatever I do, I can't keep a hold on the times when I love people when we feel things together when we forget we're even feeling but that I don't have to forget them. I don't have to forget that me, Goodmorning this is Joanna at NewTimes recruitment is also Joanna studying ancient herbs by day and kissing dark boys on not so ancient herbs by night, laughing at the moon and saying hello to the trees. This is still me.

Tell me.

Tell me.
Just tell me, tell me when I take hold of your internal organs and turn them into butterfly cakes and fairy lights. Tell me because so many do it to me. So many, as you will probably come to read if these articles last on and I don't censure to much stuff.

So many turn my blood into clouds when they first blow into the room. So many turn my bones into waves of desire after a few chats and our tongues want to no longer talk but make sandwiches together. So many end up making my insides as messed up and wrong as a butcher's shop, all bloody and gore but I swear it is sweet (I have to say, the blood and gore bit is me quoting Hozier).

Tell me when I do this to you. And tell me when I'm crushing you. Tell me because I can't go through life thinking I am the only one this happens to. Tell me because I want, I truly want to create a little world where we can say theses things and I will be able to say back "I hear your heart grinding to a halt now and your feelings are beautiful" Maybe I have the same, maybe I don't, maybe I don't yet.

It's beautiful you're able to change your priorities for some time, and put some stranger-no-longer-a-stranger in your thoughts as you're using your credit card or not making your bed because these are the thoughts associated with that person.
In my head, when I am a butcher's shop inside, life continues. But at the same time, I know my blood is doing a Formula 1 race from my brain to my loins and I'm so sad no one knows the event is going on.

It's beautiful to have the privilege to do that. And, it's an act of awareness towards a world where loving someone instantly and insanely and briefly is ok and not a commitment to a life of sanitised marriage. And so I want people to be able to do this with me, I want to be a place where me not reciprocating your love with the same intensity is not the end of the world because there is no shame in it and there are many other places like me to put fairy lights on. And also because, I might just have the electricity to turn your fairy lights on...

you can show your ears Hozier if you want - he is recurrent in mine

Living and Leaving. ~05/05/17

Living and leaving.

In the international language that we still call english, these words have become one. People go through life, travelling. Different places, differents times. “Where are you living” becomes a homophone of “when are you leaving”. Say it a few times and you’ll see.
But it gets to me deeper than that.

In the constant departure from the past we forget that we are, in fact, living. Today, I am, living. And tomorrow, that tomorrow that comes in one month’s time, I will be, leaving.
Leaving breaks my heart. It throws a river of crying tears in me, pushing at the dam that is my soul. I can feel it now, gushing through my eyes, distorting the present. My home unrecognisable through the blur. I’m living in the future. ANd I don’t want to go there, to the unknown.
How could I ? How could I when the known present time and present place are so good to me ?
Exchanging fleeting love with strangers, love so much more pure and accepting than that I could give before. That painful love you give when all you want is.a.bit.more.
How could I want to leave when I am truly living now and feel I will die of sadness at the mere thought of being elsewhere.


I’m strong. Well, sort of. I thought I was. I thought I was stable. Stable in my joy. I’ve been stable in my joy for a whole week now,
But I’m stable in my joy until I’m not. I’m confident until I’m not, I feel accepted until I don’t and I feel loved until I don’t.
I thought I could find solace in my ever changing self, but turns out, I need the hugs and drugs on the rocks and on the streets. I need the gentle hand on my knee, cradling my painful heart, helping me strengthen that dam inside me.
Turns out, I think I need nothing more until I lose my bliss to a kiss and all I can feel is the erosion in my limbs.
Gravity is no more grounding but the mere physical attraction between me, the land and the planet.
The pull of leaving no more the escape from boredom but the sentence to a lifetime of eternal unsatisfaction.

And I’ll still be leaving.