The sleep turns, twists..
faces burn, emerge into relief, ..yet relief itself still yearns
to break the tide of years of grief..
Here is it, now.. but how it always was?
Lonely streets repeat.. and repeat.. and repeat.
A winding, silent trace of deceit?
Snaking cul-de-sacs, walls and alleys of thought, trapped..
Yet turning back on ones' self
like a serpent consuming it's own tail.
Replete, coiled, confused..
But returned. Somehow returned.
sunken into the strata of a thousand hills
rocks press relentlessly but the forces cannot hold still
like dark matter, memory rises through into dreams
as if all the land was paper and the memories were ink
scenes reconstitute from atoms, faces emerge in black tones
and there we are again to repeat the show
play that again..
Who was that person that time?
Who am I?
I took down this journal and put it back up again. That's probably about 7 times now, and many early posts are long deleted.
This is a typical reaction.
The ACOA child is undeserving of credit, and seeks to diminish itself of responsibility. It also seeks to play down talents or skills as if these things are merely passing strangers.
As a child I felt I was gifted yet was frozen by the thought of using this in a way that exposed me to failure.
The undeserving adult is no different, and the child is merely wearing the adult like a costume.
In the story, there is a fierce struggle. It was a surprise to me that the struggle would be so fierce and the resistance so unrelenting. The controller and the controlled, locked in remorseless combat.
Today I stood up and looked back at the debris from the past month. In the story, there is a similar battle, and almost, a defeat.
Yet there is an inevitability that the story provides me. A sense of fate.
Of living in parallel to it.
Yet the ground still shifts underneath my feet.
If this journal is a thing, it is at least an account of things as they are. The honesty and public expression of honesty are a searing concept. There must be no hiding.
The blindness of sight. Colours blend yet each ray reaches disagreement, an impasse on which colour to be. Always black it seems, as paint, not light.
Awakenings arise, spooned along a laser of time; the past roughly mounts the present,
unwanted coupling.. the past rapes the now.
the present is a disembodied victim.... out of its mind... bring it some mind-altering things.
Yet I return. Somehow from this bleakness. Sometimes. Enough times.
I crawl to the well and peer downwards expecting to see lost children, long discarded in there.
Maybe I'm there...?
But there is nothing but deep gloom.
I need to stand up, but the pain is still there. As it ever was.
I get as far as my knees. But that is something. I've been here before.
So in the story and so in life.
And the words form through keyboard and eye and brain, though not ever touching the emptiness, not impressing the coldness of time.
Lonely eyes scan across hungry pixels. White and unworthy space, ensnaring thoughts that cannot make it to the page. Not as they truly are.
I'm on my knees. This low, sunken state as a carrion carcass being picked and defiled by seagulls and ravens. I look at the stark ribs as they represent the final shadow of experience. Picked bare.
I see my reflection. I ask myself can I do this or will I fail?
I don't know.
I awaken and smell black like Decayed Soot, carbon lungs fill with the air of tepid lakes.
Awaken to the realisation that I have been in a coma, taken. Gone.
The heady times; rushing, stumbling, laughing. Now slaughtered on the altar.
The thing is there back on the skull, sucking at the juices of my being. It has me.
I found these questions I asked myself on a phone app from 2 years ago and feel I should list them here for the record.
What is the significance of what I am trying to do?
How does this reflect the literature?
How will it speak of the culture you live in and were raised in?
How can emotional pain be communicated?
What sacrifices need to be made?
How does it feel to breathe life into the non-existent?
Is this process like a reanimation of pain?
How does it feel to reanimate trauma?
How does the trauma respond?
Does it have its own agency?
What agency does it represent?
What is its method?
How does trauma invoke a twin in addiction?
Is the animator invoking a twin in the animation?
What is the effect of this process?
How does one deal with sabotage?
Is sabotage the agency of trauma?
What is its function?
Is the agency of addiction a manifestation of trauma?
Does the completion of this project represent a coup? A seizure of power?
How might the trauma attempt to sabotage or thwart this coup?
Can small victories or achievements set off greater efforts in the face of paralysis?
What is the internal narrative of the mind as these conflicts play out?
How can these conflicts be represented visually and through movement?
What is the atmosphere of trauma and psychic disturbance?
What is the role of revenge and vengeance in reclaiming the initiative?
In this entry I would like to register the difficulties encountered in self-examination, and in terms of processing and action.
The drag-pull of trauma yields a constant battle. Though patterns are continually disrupted, and resemble ADHD- like symptoms (interestingly this is a realistic & untested prospect). Anxiety is a central axis upon which other emotions and actions pivot; and most efforts tend to be reactions rather than actions. Memory is affected in terms of having to rediscover the state of play in a constant searching for the end of the thread. Where was I?
Underneath the fluctuating of day-to-day activities lays a general sense of unease and fear; the knot (also knows as Generalised Anxiety).
Self-perception and esteem fluctuates from confident to near-collapse. Front and run. Commit and hide.
This makes the undertaking of a PhD a considerably difficult affair.
Thoughts on the effects of narrative: At this stage I have very positive thoughts relating to my created characters, and visualise myself as akin to the Moth character. I almost picture this creature and in my mind's eye in his struggle. I will him onwards. I am also the boy, so in this sense I am performing an act of self- rescue. I think about this story and these characters and try to live the ideas I have created in my own real existence. This is influencing me, and has led to changes in my thinking. This is a real and tangible effect. I feel a sense of duty and accountability to these fictional avatars. This is very interesting to me.
by Paul Sinclair