5.58 am. 59, actually. Time flies.
Sun is rising. Under the pouring rain. The sky is grey, but you can see glimpses of blue behind it. Blue’s fighting hard to recover from the bad weather. I think that, at some point of the day, it’s just going to give up and let the grey take over. After all, we’re in Brittany. One can hardly hope for the weather to turn into sunny, warm thing.
I gave up entirely on all social networks. I haven’t actually been on twitter for days, and I’m using facebook only to carry on my White Lies France duties. I don’t even know how far I will keep on faking the perfect happy fan. We’re barely 200 out there, once again, I probably picked up the wrong horse. If people does not want to care, it’s their choice. I don’t really know why I’m fighting this hard on this territory. No one gives a damn about it anyway. It’s like refusing to pull the plug off a brain dead thing already. Or maybe my all time speciality is to hold on desperates cases. My own life being first on the list.
I know, I do not really sound like the happiest thing of all. I don’t know if happiness is the actual matter. I have extremely happy moments. I just try to figure out what the hell is wrong with me, why am I so stubborn I refuse to give in. How easier would that be. How comfortable. How comforting. I’m there, being old, unreasonable, watching the sun rise and craving so many things. So many people. So many feelings. I look at the sky and all I want to do is take the first plane to nowhere. To everywhere. Stop thinking. Just live. See things. Meet people. Love them with all of my damaged heart.
I crave being alive. Waking up in the middle of nowhere, going out on the streets and letting the unknown catch me and kill me if it is what it wants to do.
Over the past months, people have spit on my memories. On the best ones. The worst part of it all being that the creators of those memories are those destroying it inch by inch. I hate the feeling of having chosen the wrong side. Of having trust people who don’t deserve my trust. Of being the pathetic idiot saving the day for nothing. How I wish I was loved. How I wish I was liked. How I wish there was something from me people cherished. How I wish I was something.
Yeah, I feel like I’m nothing, lately. Or not much anyway. I’ve probably done stuff wrong. I don’t precisely know what, because everything is done within my whole entire heart and soul into it.
I’m not depressed. I’m just being terribly realistic. And no one ever said that the truth was fun to catch on.
So, instead of measuring up how lonely I feel, and how easily I just vanished from people’s life, I drown myself into work. All sorts of work. Useless one. Vain one. Terribly down the ground one. Dream one. Artistic one. I cheat on my own mind, try to shut it down, shoot the whispers in the head, but they keep coming back, and they’re louder each time.
So, what am I going to do ? Sitting down in front of the opened window at sunrise, appreciate the simple melody of the rain, its smells, the one of freshly cut grass, melted with a little bit of the polluted air, and I’ll wait till I feel the freshness of the sea nearby. And it always comes. Never failed.
When I’m done with work, or with overthinking everything, I switch on to the happy things, the other world, the one where I can scream out loud at 4 in the morning, finding out that I’ll be able to see Star Trek one day before it is actually released in France. Half full. Only twenty hours won over the 12th, and in french. Half empty. But it’s still a lot of fun and stuff to look forward to. Entirely full. And let it be.
I’ve been following the bumpy yet damn exciting Benedict path too. Taking things slowly really is the key. Slowly but surely, he’s becoming something that’s an actual part of my life, however strange and lonely it could be, he’s there everywhere. Changing all of my backgrounds have had a positive effect on it all. I have supressed all the risks of bumping into things that would be painful to look at, and instead, I am litteraly drowning my sorrows into his perfect eyes, and am not willing to be rescued at all. Leave me there. It seems that it’s the one place where I don’t have to explain myself about everything I am or everything I do. I just look at him, see all the bloody perfection this world is capable of, and I suppose that it is fine by me. It’s like sitting down the whole day in front of a Monet’s masterpiece. No one asks you why you’re doing this, because on your face, it’s like you’re entering a whole entire new world. Benedict is slowly becoming my world. He would probably be a totally average dude for anyone else, and one with a pretty fucked up name too. But he has probably forced my brain to all of its current pain, pain that is, in the end, extremely necessary to reach something that was out of my league until now. Complete, absolute artistic bliss. I don’t care about fandoms, about whatever he or she says or thinks, I have no need to scream out loud how much I actually adore that little pinch in my heart each time he is mentionned, let alone playing. I feel it refreshing, that little delighted squee here and there, and my mind drifting apart just realising how just beautiful he is. It makes me feel both silly and lucky. There is a whole entire universe I’m exploring one step at a time, and the further I go, the better it feels. I let him do. I have no urge of telling him in a way or another, I just feel like everything is just there, between his huge, impossible to qualify talent, and me. And there’s nothing left to say. And it feels fabulous. And I’m glad I am rich of this. I’m extremely grateful.
Oh, I’ve been wandering around another massively talented actor, this week end. I finally took the time to watch the whole of Broadchurch, and was absolutely moved by it. Possibly one of the best serie I’ve seen since…Well, Parade’s End. Not this long, but totally worth taking the eight something hours. Plus there’s David Tennant in it, which is the cherry on top of the cake, but seeing how great he is, I’d say it’s a pumpkin sized cherry. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Oh, one of the perks of being socially ignored was to start appreciating Muse’s work again. Whenever you drop the pressure of the mass of critics and of fangirling and of blind love and deaf hate, you just realise that you can see a setlist and think “oh my word, this is bloody brilliant” and see a stage and think “holy cow that’s 2007 all over again” and the thought stays like that. No one come to spit on it, and you just realise you are loving those people that made your life for years all over again. Twitter has been, lately, such a hate territory that I now realise that being out of it is like discovering all over again how pure air feels. You’d think you can’t spread hate in 140 caracters. Well, think again. Social networks are like a call for what’s worst in the human being. Tendancy to like to brag over nothing. Love for hate, everything, everyone, about things that we normally should appreciate. I don’t find any comfort in this fake world, not anymore. Maybe I’m just growing up to be less about myself and more about my world. After all, aren’t we all vain to claim that our lives have to be updated on an hourly basis ? I know, I’m blogging, but in the end, I’m doing it to exorcise my demons, not to be read. Maybe we’re all little vain and egocentric creatures, and maybe that’s going to be our death. That’s the thing. Anyway, I am letting Muse coming back to me, and it’s going to take a long time, providing we’ve been throwing dishes, furniture, bricks and mortar at each other’s face, but where love has grown, I still believe hate can’t win. Bellamy’s still a rat, but it’s a rat that has saved my miserable life. I can’t deny it much longer. And as far as I can see, Muse are faaaaar from being the most badly behaved band, in terms of disrespecting fans and stuff.
7.06 am. I was right. Grey has won the fight. Maybe I’ll try to sleep. Maybe I’ll just get back to 221B.
Mind Palace 