The End Of The Girl

This post has been a long time coming.

When I went into rehab in August last year, I felt so optimistic and light, as though my bones had been hollowed out and the stagnant old marrow replaced by cool air and sparkling water, as though the old feather bed underneath my skin was finally being aired, as though each ethereal step could transport me into another, better life; hovering above the baking pavements like the heat haze, like a cloud in torn jeans.

Well, it hasn’t quite worked out like that.

I’m 31 years old and the passion I once had for life has bled out through the bandages. I’ve relapsed and come shuffling back into the rooms like the haggard ghost of myself, I’ve realised that you can meet the right person at the wrong time and have it quietly shatter you over the months like a window cracking under ice. I’ve admitted that I dont know who I am or where I’m going. I’ve been suspended in the atmosphere living life as a spinning plate, as a shard of something bright and jagged mirroring the stars like glass being passed off as diamonds. It’s been heartbreaking, feeling all that newborn hope I had seep away, like watching baby birds die.

This blog has undergone many changes since it first began. I’ve compartmentalised my life into so many different people, terrified that no one would want to read the disjointed reality, so that I actually have a couple of blogs where I talk about different things. I dont believe I can do that anymore. I don’t even know what I can do anymore. I just need all the threads of my life to converge in the centre of the web, so that perhaps they can pull me back as I step like The Fool off the edge of this cliff.

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Not too long ago I was reading about runic inscriptions, there is a piece that was found in the grave of a woman in Germany which reads: For The Wayfarer, Love.’ It has been translated a few different ways: for the soul of the dead – from the beloved; for Odin (the traveller) – with love. I prefer the idea that the soul is being sent with love on their journey, For you, flying between worlds; for you, arriving on unknown shores; for you, the wayfarer, love.

I have finally, at the end of these months of despair that have strangled my days like quiet but lethal bindweed, begun my real journey, to a creative life in sobriety, to finding out who I am without drink and drugs, which have kept me numb and suppressed and half-here since I was fourteen years old. To a magickal existence rooted and winged, not fuelled by the false promises of power lurking like a wet specimen in a bottle. Because no matter how many times I die inside, I resurrect; I claw my way through the living grave of my own body and rake the glowing ashes of my brain, again and again. I hope you enjoy the trip with me, as I sail somewhere new from the end of my world, from the end of the girl.

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