30.10.07

I'm afraid my life is very dull and boring and I have nothing to say to any of you. I have no thoughts of any interest, nothing exciting going on in this little red head of mine. I feel empty. I feel compelled to write, but who for, and how when my mind is as cold as my freezing hands? I don't know what you want from me. I'm writing for the darkness; I can't even write for me any more. I'm in my dark hole where no-one can hear me and I'm not sure anyone else actually exists. I can smell the damp earth, musty and rank as a rotting pile of leaves, and can only hear the sound of my breath; the silence of my thoughts is painful. It's a pain that goes right through me, a constant ache and longing. I'm flat-lining, and I desperately want to feel something. I ask myself what's the point of creating anything if there's no dialogue, no engagement with you and I find I have no answer.

I wrap myself up in a red woollen blanket, with green stitching around the edges, and go and sit on the floor in the corner of the room leaning against the plaster wall. I pull the blanket up over my head and bury my face in its short fibres, draw my knees up to my chest and hope that the warmth will soon return.