IMAGINATION IS HER DRINK

I drank an exceptional amount of alcohol last night.

I really need to stop doing that. Or at least think about stopping.

Or not.

Well, let’s say not. Because I’m drinking and writing as we speak…

Yesterday’s day on a plate, consisted of two coffees, a cup of tea, and a muesli bar.

Until around 11pm that is.

Who are these people that manage to have free range egg white omelettes, with a side of organic spinach, washed down by some bullshit freshly made juice? I mean, really…

For some reason I woke up in a bit of a mood yesterday, and lounged around in my pyjamas until 3pm.

I cleaned my house like a mad woman all morning, even though it was already clean, before going and visiting my parents for a bit.

I always clean when I feel as though my life is spinning out of control.

If my outer world is in order, then hopefully it will do something to my inner world. Silly theory really. But there’s always a method to my ever present madness.

After spending a few hours with my parents, I decided to drink and write.

With more drinking than writing taking place.

Not realising the gravity of what a relatively empty stomach, in addition to a whole bottle of wine might do to me.

After finally deciding to eat at 11pm, I took myself to bed a couple of hours later.

I switched off the light, and then the fun began. I hadn’t felt like this is in a while.

The room began to spin. My jaw started clenching up.

Oh no. I was going to vomit.

I staggered into my ensuite, and sat down on the cold tiles, holding onto the toilet bowl for support. My eyes unable to focus on anything.

Ugh. Why do I do this to myself?

I returned to the bed after a fruitless attempt at ridding myself of the toxins I had consumed.

The room began to spin again. I inhaled deeply through my nostrils, trying desperately to make this feeling go away.

I got up, went to the laundry to retrieve a bucket, and turned on all of the lights in the bedroom, before laying back down again.

At some point I must have drifted off, because I looked at the time and it was now 6am.

I got up, switched off the lights, and fell back into a deep slumber. The best sleep I’d had for a long time.

I woke up at around 10am, with a fort of pillows around me. My arms and neck sore from whatever position I had managed to fall asleep in.

I looked down at the floor.

The bucket still next to the bed. An empty packet of antacids beside it (I don’t recall that part), and clothes strewn everywhere.

My girlfriend phoned then, and we spoke for a while, before I decided to drag myself out of bed and start putting my world in order once again.

And then I recalled all of the inspirational messages I had throughout the week in regards to my writing. And I thought, “you know what? It’s totally fine.”

Sometimes I suffer from “word vomit”.

My writing being an outpouring of whatever thoughts and feelings I have going on in my mind. And I’m totally cool with that.

To an observer, they just see me as this stupidly tiny woman, who cracks jokes all the time. Who laughs at everything. Who dresses like a hobo most of the time. The eternal girl that doesn’t really care what anyone thinks of her.

And to those who follow my writing (and for those few that are my friend), they understand that I run a lot deeper than what meets the eye.

That I’m somewhat of a recluse, and that I definitely wear my heart on my sleeve. That I live very much in my head. And off in the ethers at times. And that I’m terribly insecure.

But that I see the beauty, and inspiration in everything.

And it’s this that I think helps me write the way that I do.

That I am so stupidly sensitive to everything around me.

Then I had another thought.

When I was feeling what I was feeling last night, I was trying to make the feeling go away.

Instead of just embracing it.

Sometimes in life, we do become intoxicated.

We allow certain things to not only get under our skin, but also into our veins.

How when we become an empty vessel of sorts, we make room for things that can completely mesmerise us into a state of what the dictionary describes intoxication as being in a state of being mentally or emotionally exhilarated.

So turn the lights on. Illuminate what is there. And relax into that fort of pillows and comfort in knowing that you have surrendered to what is. You might wake up feeling better than you have in an eternity.

Whilst alcohol definitely is my drug of choice, so is imagination.

So I will leave you today with a quote from Christopher Poindexter, which I personally feel as though was written for me.

“What I love most about her is that she knows how to fuck reality and make love to fantasy, not something many other humans know how to do. Imagination, is her drink.”

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