This is here we are. I am. I need to document this, or something of this. Now. Of now I mean. I don't write how or what exactly my brain thinks but it is coming out new are fresh and maybe that is better. It can be its own individual workings. I knew what I'd write while I was walking down the corridor. I also hoped I wouldn't write that. Or that. But now. The world is out of focus. You could say this is because my glasses are broken. But I refuse to fix them. I would make the point of me being tired. My fatigue. That is the issue I think. I like this because my notebook is full and because I wanted to write. In geography I wrote, on my phone

10.44am
Wednesday 10 March
i need a notebook. it'll arrive in a week. i am so full of dissatisfaction, that makes me empty. i am an old silk scarf and the world has dripped into a pool on this second floor geography classroom floor and i am sopping and soaking it up like a fucking tampon so i smell bad and feel rubbish and do not belong anywhere outside of the bin.

I could write pages and pages. Like Luke's walking. I want to write all afternoon. To document all.

I'm not sure where the whole tampon thing came from. This is in pieces and it doesn't sound good or fit or feel correct except I like the sopping and soaking but I've only listened to big thief for the past three days and it sounds like the line in pretty things. And she speaks of silk. I wanted to say of pool of blood but I thought it would be like cliché tumblr poetry.

I don't know why I thought of the cycle, it came into my head as I was walking down the corridor I'm not supposed to walk down in my socks and my jumper with my hot water bottle and my mask. Last night Luke said he cannot be satisfied, he feels restless so he walks and walks all day. I said I feel like that to but I cannot satisfy it by walking, my mind becomes too busy. With the exception of each other. I suppose it makes the rest of the world sink away. Maybe that's all we want from each other; the freedom from the cycle and the peace and care we can provide. The craving for the feeling of intensity we've learned to connect to the idea of each other. I feel strange all the time these days and I carry it to him but often it falls away immediately. We kissed and I thought I would cry and I got overwhelmed and stared deadpan for too long and sank into his shoulder and cried for the things I couldn't get rid of because I was standing still with my eyes shut and the cloudy night sky closes in on the school. He does not know that. Perhaps he knows that I became overwhelmed. I don't know if I did but I couldn't get rid of the thought of it so I gave into it and became overwhelmed and cried.
I knew when I agreed to go that I should say that I felt bad and I'm sorry but I was smiling as he walked in and I didn't know what else I should do. It probably worked out fine. I explained that I felt very,,, out of it. And also my glasses were properly broken now and laughed.

I don't even use tampons. I also explained that I tend to sway and fall in and out of the peaceful spacey high and the low. Which I want to have made sense to him.

Why art thou terrible and yet I love thee in thou terror till I am almost extinct and soon shall be a shadow in oblivion

I need a piss and am aching and restless too, but not like you, I am simply not or ever comfortable. Truly speaking I am overwhelmed but like I said I am trying to not smooth it all out and make it legible, so I suppose I won't do that now.

A formal description. I am at school and have been for two and a half weeks, there has only been everyone back since Sunday. I miss everything as it was on Saturday and before but I haven't thought about that much. I don't think about that much these days. I have to remind myself. Or I don't think about many important things these days, things I'd actually like to think about. I feel so passive and tired. I always think about these days when I am in my good stretches, and there is such a disconnect. I still do not feel freed by my writing. I am ignoring the very important thing. They cannot be described. Maybe I would or will soon or at some other time, if I felt differently.

I am ignoring most school work, all of the proper things. I don't care anymore. Most parts truly aren't important to me. I know I will get quite good grades no matter what I do now. I doubt I'll be disappointed in myself. It's likely my parents will be, but that doesn't bother me either. I just have to avoid everyone else's stress and pressure and continue with the things I do. What do I do in my spare time. What I want I suppose. That's isn't so significant to write. I wonder if Luke will want to see me. I don't want to today. I do but I don't care. This is what I say to myself every day.

I wonder if my brain is getting worse. Perhaps I always wonder this. There hasn't been so much irritating speaking recently, but it came back for a while in those two weeks. I think it's probably just been heightened by all of the people. I couldn't handle it on Sunday, but then I resolved it. Some things haven't been so significant to me because I've been so spaced out. Dining hall has always been bad. It probably used to be a lot worse. I don't know what I wanted this to be and it's just become like my strange journaling and I guess I'll have to put up with that.

I think often about the poem about the guardian angel. I think I did well there.

I want the free life I live sometimes in my head. This one is not mine anymore it's just a fucking movie. I guess I don't care. Because I can't. but I would like that. Right now I think I could move right away from this existence I am only aware of it because I know of it. I know I feel nostalgia and emotions and sadness for memories but I feel very selfish and egoistic and I'm so tired.

I am so full up and lacking in much attention or want that I can't remember how I wanted to write this. I just want to write now.

I feel as if I should be doing something important. But I have nothing important to say. At all. I am silly and floating around. I don't have the capacity to think like that. I don't have the ability to make something significant. I can do it by accident by willing the things coming from me into some way that pleases my aesthetic senses but I didn't create that. I didn't come up with it. I am tired and I'm stuck in this raining building not sitting straight and my back hurts and maybe I'm in love but I don't care. Maybe I could succeed in school if I wanted to but I don't. I could build friendships but they would be fake. Perhaps some of them are. I must've stopped caring about that a while ago though. I'd like to write something beautiful or legible or relatable but there's been 1300 words of trash but at least I feel a slither of accomplishment.

I've been thinking a lot about why I like words. I don't think you have to tell the truth unless you set out to do that. Maybe these are just my excuses for being terrible at writing. They are so malleable if you have the skill. I don't have the skill to do truly what I'd like but I can convey my dumb angry brain perfectly. Here is irony because I can't figure out how I wanted this to be which is exactly what I was notioning to. Here. I like the ability to notion of reference to anything you like. No one will know how much holds relevance or how much you just tore out of your internal monologue. I like that you can write any words in any order and they will convey exactly what you want. That does mean anyone will understand what you mean, it's unlikely they'll respect it because of that. But still, the power is there. I am a fucking god over this word document. I am not a god to my guitar or to garageband or to my voice or my body or to my pencil or to my fold that is in my shelf in art school. But I just wrote all of that didn't I. Now I have to click through and ignore all the suggestion I reject. Further irony because I still keep on most corrections because I like the auto caps and the spell correct. But if I wrote without it I'd spent the same amount of time correcting it. I suppose that's what this is. It's a vehicle for my mind, and whatever I want to be physical, or can be bothered to try to make physical. And my mind's idea of the physicality of my thought exists with the spag rules from year three, so give me that much lenience over my own rules. I like how this can become cryptic. I'm not sure if I'm making sense to anyone except myself because I don't care to check. I suppose that is also very insignificant, but with writing comes the feeling that someone else, lacking in any form or identity, will have to comprehend it.

Convey tone convey tone, this is my own world. I have swung into happiness.

I find it funny that I would tell someone that but not the other. I wonder whether that shouldn't be funny to me.
Two hours is nothing at all. I'd like to drink more tea. Time is another one of those things - it's gone.

Remember when I said to you on the phone that wouldn't it be funny if I became known for being anti-you. For my idiotic tone and my amateurist style. I like writing like this because it's funny. My sense of humour must be skewed. I wonder if I could convey something by a culmination of these. Maybe these three pages mean something. You and your sacrilegious love affairs and endless white man passion. I don't mean to harm it. What it means to me is not important. It is funny that I can say that. As I said this is my own world and it is secret.

I am thinking about how what if you read this. These. Henry and June probably had a too big a effect on me. I don't think I should talk about Henry. But It'd probably make you understand me better, that's what the desire is is it not. This plus the rest of me thank you already have could get close. But it's likely you'd close it and ponder and be sickened. Really I do have the mind of a twelve year old. Feel sick.

Unless some way can be found that I may look upon thee & live

I don't know what it could mean, in context I suppose. I don't know why I am still writing. Its later and I feel happy. Maybe this is temporary and I should bask it in.

I am thinking about my dream place. I can't understand it. I've realised more and more recently that the sky has turned into a ceiling. In French it is ciel. I can feel myself falling. I'm going to shower and go to bed.

It is Thursday and I'd just like my world to be smooth.

I want a story to tell. Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I crave the feeling of pulling that from myself. Finding the relief is beauty. I don't have a story though. They don't really exist. I should know that by now. I want something interesting to tell. Is that bad? But nothing is so clear in reality. A cycle. That's a joke. It's far from circular; it's so linear it almost bends downwards. I'd like to say this makes a story but it's still only a pile of shit hit 2000. Where can I start?

Truth be told I can only come up with stories of one. It's my life but I can only make it in little arrows pointing in a direction. Tell me what I'm doing. What I'm doing really. I'm curved on the floor in an S shape on my cushion wedged in the corner with my book 90 degrees on my chest where I pulled out my laptop because after the book I realised I am craving attention. Again. I knew this before. Not particularly attention. More like from myself, from my second self. I write sentences like these in the ways our movements flow. I am craving to lengthen this document with my complete nothingness because I know I will feel satisfaction when I hit a certain word count. God knows what that will be. And I because I hope, if I have the will to read this through again, I will find something hidden that I can't be bothered to pick out in the normal standard stand around on art quad way. And I know I know it already because I said it not very many lines ago. But yet I still go on.

Take it or leave it. The body I mean.

Is this the shrivelled body I live for. It's growing. If this is growing into an expansion of myself and by the second day I live to fall back to the peace. It's a replacement for love, and not what I came to write. Take or leave the body of work. If this is my body of work then it speaks for my body entirely. Fall back to the rest.

A girl walks on the spot in her room, softly so they don't hear her downstairs. She walks all day, burning energy.