lying in my bed in a hotel room feeling like no one will ever know me. is it possible to be anything less than extremely selfish in modern society? i feel like technology has taken away the human heart of communication.

the thing about living in a hotel is that i listen to a lot of bob dylan and a lot of leonard cohen and a travelodge on a main street in cambridge doesn't really exude the same kind of romance as the chelsea hotel in 1960's new york

once i was walking through soho to meet a friend and a man sitting on the street yelled, "where did ya get that lovely red hair from, scotland or ireland?" "from a box", i said, and i gave him a cigarette and joined him on the curb and we smoked together. i went home early that night feeling stupid and poor and exceptionally nostalgic. my father is scottish, his father is irish. i'm from the midlands but at that time i was living in london because like all other teenagers i was lost. so many displaced people in one city. it could never feel like home.

current mood status: i feel like drinking bleach

i'm smoking a cigarette with my friend when i notice that we both have identical scars in the same place. thin white line, inside left arm, just below the crook of the elbow. i feel excited and intimidated. we light more cigarettes, talk about our shitty jobs, talk about sex - her with girls, me with boys. all experiences equally animalistic and awkward and depressing. we drink limeade from the bottle. we talk about university, alcohol - "i was drunk for months and i hated everything". now i just steal codeine tablets from a nice lady at work because the level of mess created can always be contained. i was always a sloppy drunk. the sky begins to thunder, and then the rain comes. the lighting strikes just behind us. a constant feeling of disappointment

i can’t sit still at work. i keep falling asleep at my desk. i don’t want anyone to touch me ever again, male or female. i don’t ever want to have sex again. i need to leave this town. sometimes i can’t get out of bed. i can’t read a book or watch a television show. i can’t stop being distracted by constant thoughts of self-hatred. i can’t hold a conversation for longer than a sentence or two. i can’t make eye contact with anyone. i can’t look in a mirror or reflective surface. i can’t brush my hair or my teeth. my hands are always bleeding because i keep scratching at my skin. i am disoriented by my own sadness. i feel guilty when i share a bed with my best friend. i feel like my body can’t contain all of this. i feel like my skin is too tight. i taste metal in my mouth every day. i feel incredibly sad for people who are probably happy. i feel incredibly sad for people i have never met. i feel incredibly sad for abandoned inanimate objects. i feel strangely comforted when i read about true crime and abductions. i feel strangely comforted when the world is not good. i feel nervous and inadequate when i’m around attractive women. i feel relieved when someone is attracted to me sexually. i use casual sex as a form of self-harm. i wish i had my own concept of failure. i can’t drive a car. i can’t remember most of my childhood. i feel as though i have never been the same person. i feel nostalgic for places i have never been to. i think about death every day. i think about people i will never meet. i expect and welcome rejection because it is safer. i think that i am rotting from the inside out and i am surprised when other people do not notice. i have a darkness that blooms out of me like a fucking beacon and a weight in my stomach that i can’t begin to explain or carry or even really acknowledge.

these, our bodies, possessed by light