storm walking home humid lovely

sometimes, humidity is dreamy.
that fetid damp heaviness that covers you, clings to you, makes you feel as though you are emersed in a tepid bath. i am not completely sure why i enjoy it right now ; the heat has made my skin break out, and my hair turn into a mop ; and my energy levels drop down to nothing ; and sweat cling to every inch of me ; but right now, there is something beautiful and perfect about the density of the heat.

there was a storm which trapped me at work for a bit, rain so heavy it started to flood the carkpark, sky completely grey and sheeted. lovely lovely lovely.

'my house' is a metaphore i use in therapy. which is facinating considering how, in the past, images of rooms have been so important to complex verbal constructions in my life. the room i described was where i feel like i am when i am lost and alone and empty. on one hand, it is intensely comforting. it is the utter epitome of a fantasy room, the carving out of my soul into a template. but, on the other hand, there are aspects that keep snaking in, crawling like maggots out of the ground and invading. and when i feel panicked, and trapped, i find there is no door, and i feel so completely alone.

in other versions of the room, i sit coiled under the sheets and velvet throw, weeping, my tears tumbling out, as the incense smoke forms a familiar face that hovers above me, mocking me, taunting me, laughing at how feeble and pathetic and meaningless i am. i am compared to other, so much better people, and i feel like i am fading away to nothing, because i do Nothing with my life, i do Nothing with my heart, and i am being swallowed by the bed, and the incense, and the condensation, and the spaces between the words formed in the condensation.

in other spaces, the words inscribed in the window become tattooed across my feet, they form through my feet with the agony of a tattoo on such a sensitive place. i keep it going, i don't let it stop, i scream in agony, i watch the words form, i cry and cry and cry, and know that it's a lie, but at the same time, this marking of my flesh marks that, no. it's not a lie. those words cannot ever be a lie.

in others, the floor is carpeted in red thread. it's tangled around my feet, wrapped around my wrists, spun through my hair, cascading over onto the floor from the point on my toe i have attached it. i want to find the other end, because i know it was long since severed, ripped forcibly and bleeding across the room, because i am alone in the room, so completely alone. but i cannot find the end within the scrambled, scattered tumble of yarn over the floor. i don't know if the end is there after all. i have no idea.

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i start my Intensive Saving Plan next pay. mother has, in tones of desperation and begging, told me she is paying off my credit card. this makes me feel filthy, but at the same time, i am not going to question it too hard, because hot damn, i want to save some $$ so travelling becomes a reality sooner rather than later. i am thinking we save for the year, and move overseas at the end. this is the plan, and is less likely to cause a heart attack then my "petal, we are moving overseas in a month' that i threw on lachlan last time. hehehe.

at the moment, i keep getting the feeling of 'doing nothing' again. that stagnate, creatively constipated feeling. i need to sit back and stop stressing because i end up like a knot in the centre of a pile of rat's tails. this is not conducive to mental security.

make art.
knit. (when it's less hot)
read read read read read before uni starts
study.
feel useful.