Empty.

Empty.

An existence. One filled with a ‘feeling’ so hard to comprehend, and consequently, inexplicably hard to define.

Being empty is when you are running on only the most necessary state of mind needed for the simplest survival; you carry out day-to-day tasks without realising. You walk, you eat, you drink, you sit down, you lie down, you stare, you disappear. You don’t realise.

Being empty is when you see your reflection and see it as just a reflection of a person whom you do not recognise. It is when you stand and stare at the person in the mirror for endless minutes, thinking nothing, seeing nothing. You do not see the emotions or the history behind the skin. You see only a person, it is not you, is it even a reflection any more?

Being empty is when you hit things, punch walls, cut deep, without a second thought. It is when you wait for the pain to set in because you need it so badly to remind you that you are still alive, not just in a limbo of confused existence. It is when you don’t even realise you needed the pain, you just do it as a reflex.

Being empty is being physically unable to move or talk or listen. You cannot move from your state of paralysis in front of the mirror or in the corner of your room. You cannot move the fingers that you have so intricately entwined with a blade away from your wrist. You cannot answer the question you were just asked. You cannot recognise the words that are being spoken.

Being empty is where you see only denotation. The connotations you automatically think have disappeared and you are left with nothing but ‘ceiling’, ‘rain’, ‘blood’.

Being empty is where you are not sad, nor happy, nor angry. You feel them all at once, in a rush so strong that you cannot feel them at all. Perhaps it could be said that there is so much emotion that there is none.

Being empty is where you do not know which is worse; the emotion or the state of numbness.

Being empty is when you do not feel. Being empty is when you cannot feel. Being empty is being a ghost.

Being empty is feeling nothing when your lover kisses you or wraps his arms around you and holds you tight. It is feeling nothing when she strokes your face and tells you that it is going to be alright.

Being empty is when you cannot cry because there is nothing to bring the tears, despite the millions of thoughts that circled in your mind just ten minutes ago.

Being empty is not living.

Being empty is existing.

Being empty is being hopeless.

Boys, boys, idiots and boys.

In my last post, I was debating a situation involving a lad in the year above. Remember? No? Didn’t think so.

Well… I just bit the bullet so to speak and just told him that I’d had enough. Not in those words, obviously, before you bite my head off for being mean.

The thing is… I had a day off school for the strikes on Tuesday and was hanging out with some friends for the day. He knew this. He knew because he’d asked me about four times previous to said day off. I swear the boy has the memory of a goldfish…

Getting back on track. So, I’d mentioned that I was with friends and if I didn’t reply for a while, that was why. But what did I get?

Hiya xx

Hiya xx

U ok xx

Hiya xx

U ok xx

Hiya xx

Wuu2 xx

Hiya xx

*sighs* I’m not even joking. These were half an hour-to an hour and a half apart. If I didn’t reply the first few times, did he not realise that I probably wasn’t going to reply to the next five?! I DO NOT NEED A SPAM OF ‘HIYA’s’ for crying out loud.

At the end of the day, I just felt intoxicated. It was too much; NEWS FLASH: excessive amounts of messages are not hot. Anything but.

Soooo, I just kind of wrote a long winded paragraph full of bull about having a lot of stuff going on  and needing time to myself to sort things out (that much was true), not being ready for a relationship, that he needs to reduce the texts a little, etc etc. I felt so bad, because, of course, I know what it’s like to be on the other side. Buuuuut, at the end of the day, it was infuriating.

He was insistent that we could ‘make it work’ and I just kind of sat there like… hahahahahahahaha no. I’m so nice, aren’t I!

All in all, he seemed to be okay with it, and said he’d leave me alone for a bit.

Did he?

No. No he did not.

The next day:

Hiya

Hiya

U ok?

Have you sorted things out yet?

I cannot sort my life out in a day.

So I told him this and he apologised and again, said he’s leave me be for a while,

Surely he must have done so this time?

Nope.

I think there was a gap of a day. And then came the ‘Hiya’.

I felt obliged to answer so it was small talk like always. I was shopping in town at this time so when he asked what I was up to, I said so. Now, maybe this is just me reading too far into it… But, when he said ‘If u don’t mind me asking who with’ The suffocating feeling returned. Did it really matter? Was he jealous? It just so happened that I was just with my mum and sister, but it just appeared to be very suffocating.

Next came the sob story: the ‘fallen-out-with-a-‘good-mate’-and-I-regret-ever-being-born-and-everyone-hates-me’ sob story to be precise. Oh well done, try to make me feel bad for you.

Ugh.

But I’m just so done with him.

Can't deal with it photo tumblr_m8jhbiHYBx1r9wyf9.gif

And so is the story of… Let’s call him A.G.3. Awkward Guy 3. Pretty apt? Yep.

Moving on to other boys… More interesting boys. *cue excessive winking*

I have decided that the guy who sits next to the twat in front of me in French… *drum roll* is hot. And not so much of a massive twat as I first thought. In fact, he’s really nice. And he talks to me. That’s a first. Plus I have his Snapchat. And he’s tall. Tall guys are just… My dream. He’s beaut. We spend French lessons taking the piss out of the idiot, now named Imbécile which is hilarious. Ahhh, French has suddenly become much more enjoyable. Let’s call said hot guy, …T.H.G.i.F – Tall Hot Guy in French. How creative.

Nom nom nom.

'Did someone say cute boys?'

‘Did someone say cute boys?’

I’m currently having an ongoing war with Skate about who’s hotter. Myself or him. Totes flirtay leik. I’m very much enjoying it.

Bon nuit mes amis.

xx