Through Someone Else's Eyes

She cut herself again last night. The rolled up sleeves of her over-sized jumper reveal her arms, marred with the scars of her pain; one wrist wrapped in a clean, white bandage. She sits staring out of that same window, her legs curled up under her, hands intertwined. I watch as, slowly, tears begin to fall from her eyes, sliding silently down pale cheeks which become stained with the salt water of her tears. She is withdrawn; distracted almost. Her mind closed off. She never lets anyone in. She simply gazes into the distance. She seems lost. Living in her own world inside her head, where no one can reach her. I wonder if she even knows that I am here. Her face appears blank, giving nothing away; no emotion. But her eyes give away what her expression and her lips will not. Those tears continue, now in earnest, to tumble from her wide eyes unhindered. She doesn’t even raise a hand to swipe them away. I wonder if she even realises that she is crying.

Those tears are not the only physical manifestation of her torment. The mass of pink and white scars that cover her fore-arms betray her inner pain and I know that there are many more scars, in places unseen. Wounds and injuries which she has inflicted upon herself. Carving her pain into her flesh, her blood flowing from her veins, falling like the tears that now fall from her eyes. That blood now staining the once blank, white canvas of the bandage that covers her wrist. No one can know what is going on inside that head of hers however hard they try. Her mind is a labyrinth. They stumble blindly, unable to follow the path of her thoughts; always reaching dead ends. She gives nothing away. She will not tell a soul. She does not trust them; has learnt not to trust anyone. She has been hurt and betrayed too many times.
…

“Why did you self-harm last night?”

His voice is soft but his question is direct; to the point. Blunt. He has seen the dressing on her arm. He knows what it means. He knows she has a strong tendency to self-harm. He is looking at her intently. His gaze attempting to penetrate the invisible fog that surrounds her, cutting her off from him; from the rest of the world. He waits for some form of response from her; some sign to indicate that she has heard him. She appears to not even be listening to him. Her eyes are glazed and she is completely unmoving. She still hasn’t uttered a single word in answer. But he knows that she is in there; hiding. From herself as much as from him. He leans back in his chair and continues to wait, patiently, for her to work out whatever is going on inside her head. Waiting for her to try to put it all into words. Giving her time to process what he has asked her.

…

I sit staring out of the window, barely paying any attention to the people walking past or to anything happening in the world outside. I am not part of that world that rushes past the window. That world filled with people getting on with their own lives. I am an outsider; I don’t belong. Sometimes I feel as though I don’t even belong in this body. I’m just trapped inside it looking out through someone else’s eyes; imprisoned in someone else’s skin. Everything feels strange and distant. Even sound struggles to reach me and when it does, I cannot make sense of any of it. It’s all muffled. I am deep underwater where no one can reach me. I try to move but everything feels so disconnected. I feel like I can’t really control it; this body. I look down at my hands, my arms. Stretching them out in front of me. Wiggling my fingers and rotating my wrists, just to make sure they are actually mine. There is a bandage around my left wrist. I remember watching as a hand was raised, the silver of a razor blade flashing between thumb and fingers as that blade slashed across the pale flesh of a forearm. Repeatedly. I watched as blood pearled and gathered in the wounds before over-flowing and sliding down that arm, and then dripping onto the white porcelain of the bathroom sink. My hand, my arm, my blood. But I don’t remember feeling any pain. Everything is numb.

Even my mind feels numb. Thoughts buzz around the inside of my head, beating against my skull, and I feel that dull ache that usually indicates the beginnings of a migraine. Everything feels too close, too bright, too loud. But it’s all blurry around the edges. As though I’m trying to read a book up close and I can’t make out the words. It’s making my eyes hurt. I can’t breathe; there’s no air in here and I can hear this odd choking, hiccupping sound as though someone is being strangled or drowned. My face feels hot. I lift my hand to my cheek and my fingers come away wet.

…

It hurts to see her like this. A strange kind of pain; a haunting shadow that pervades my mind and reverberates through me, to the deepest parts of me. My heart aches and it feels as though my soul is splitting – cracking, splintering, shattering. She is weeping loudly now and the sound of her sobs echoes all around me. It is the only sound I hear, blocking out everything else. She lifts a trembling hand to her face and I am once again drawn to the sight of her wrists and the multitude of scars there; the physical evidence of her inner agony. Her deepest, darkest secrets displayed for all to see. I almost can’t stand to watch her destroying herself in this way. I feel trapped. As though I am being forced to watch her life spiralling out of control. Something is compelling me to witness this; her complete an utter self-destruction. I just want to shout and scream at her; make it stop. Just make the hurting stop. But I can’t stop it. I can’t protect her. I can’t do anything.

I can’t even move. I am stuck in this place; this exact same position. Something is holding me back. The air itself has become something tangible. It is thick and heavy. I am walking against the tide and it beats at me. I am drowning; gasping for air. I don’t want to watch this tale of devastation playing out before my eyes. But I can’t help it. I can’t turn away from the sight of her; her thin and fragile body scarred and broken. It is as though her tears of anguish sing out to me. Her pain and her brokenness anchor me; tether me to her. And I can feel the pain of her heart breaking in two.

…

“Where did you go to?”

The clear, quiet voice breaks through. I lift my head and turn to look at the well-dressed man sitting across from me. He is looking directly at me, the question still in his eyes. It hangs in the air between us. He knows that I heard him, that I just need time to process his question. I sneak a look at the clock above the door on the wall opposite. The session is almost over and I realise that I’ve barely said a word since ‘hello’. I turn back to the therapist. He is still looking at me, expectantly. His gaze pins me to the chair. I know he’s not going to let me get away with not answering him. Avoidance doesn’t work with him. And no sarcastic comments about not having moved; deflection isn’t going to work either. I can hear the ticking of the clock, getting louder and louder. And slower, as time crawls on stretching outwards for an eternity. There is no escape. I think about his question. Considering his meaning. My heart speeds up, as does my breathing. I take a deep breath to try to calm down a little. Time is now standing still,

“I go to this place sometimes. Far away. Where nothing can touch me. I can’t feel any pain; can’t feel anything. And it’s as though I’m watching myself, my life, through someone else’s eyes…”

Arachne

A single thread,
as fine as spiders’ silk
- spinning outwards –
into an exquisite, intricate design.
The spider weaves her tapestry,
thread by thread,
laid carefully in place;
intentionally.
Slowly,
it forms, and I see
the completeness of the web,
laced with gold
and images of gods.
An ancient tale
of woe;
lies and deceit;
poverty, pain
and death:
of humanity.
Each individual strand of thought
is brought together,
in the dark and dusty corner
of my mind;
coalescing in beauty.

Tabula Rasa

Blank. As a fresh winter morning,
after snow has fallen,
covering the ground
in a crisp white sheet;
like paper

- this sheet of paper -

in front of me.
Slowly being marked;
inscribed with ink.
Words, phrases,
lines of a poem,
tracing down the page -
like a path of footprints
through the snow…

Voices ring
through this frozen landscape,
children’s laughter rises,
growing louder over time.
Hands and faces red
as a robin’s breast,
in the cold air.
They run and dance and fall
leaving memories in the snow.

Ekphrasis

This journey has not reached its end, 

Thoughts spread, like ink across the page, 

In this poem which I have penned. 

This story which another lent.

This tale is now ripened with age, 

This journey has not reached its end. 

On another’s words this does depend,

Ideas trapped, like birds in a cage,

In this poem which I have penned. 

Those words, across the page, they did send, 

This story has become my stage,

This journey has not reached its end. 

For my own use, those words I bend,

At last, set free, my mind does rage,

In this poem which I have penned. 

Broken words and phrases I did mend,

This pattern stamped upon the page, 

This journey has now reached its end, 

In this poem which I have penned.

Why I love literature!, and, Learning about writing from 'The Angel's Game' by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

'The Angel's Game' by Carlos Ruiz Zafon is a brilliant example of 'Metafiction'. "'Metafiction' is the literary term describing fictional writing that self-consciously and systematically draws attention to its status as an artifact in posing questions about the relationship between fiction and reality, usually using irony and self-reflection." (quote taken from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metafiction) 'The Angel's Game' is Metafiction as it acknowledges the existence of the author and the reader and of it's own existence as a piece of literature. This is made evident through the frequent dialogues between the protagonist, a struggling writer named David Martin, and his mysterious, and down-right creepy, publisher, Andreas Corelli and between David and his young assistant, Isabella. 

The novel is a kind of ghost story, following David Martin's journey of self-discovery and his attempts to uncover the mystery behind the death of another author, Diego Marlasca, who once owned the house in which David now lives, and the connection between this mysterious death and his strange publisher, Corelli. Underpinning the purely fantastical plot is a running dialogue or commentary regarding what it is to write and to be a writer. The discussions, between David and Isabella especially, are somewhat reminiscent of the book, by Rainer Maria Rilke, 'Letters to a Young Poet', which is a record of the correspondence between Rilke and an aspiring young writer who writes to Rilke asking for his critique and how one becomes a writer. Rilke's response is this, "Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write"; basically telling the young writer that, if all he can think about is being a writer and feels that he might die if he is denied the ability to do so, then he is a writer. 

David's journey through the novel shows him, first, losing his physical existence to his writing. His labours in producing novel after novel for a disreputable publishing duo see his physical health decline rapidly to the point that he is on the verge of death because he has worked himself, almost literally, to the bone. But then, he is approached by Corelli who, in some kind of modernist Faustian deal, commissions David to write a religious text; or rather to create a religion, which then sees David lose his mind and even his soul to the work he is producing. One of the settings for the novel is a bookshop called 'Sempere and Sons'. The owner of the shop, Senor Sempere, is a literary sympathiser. He has known David since he was a young boy when he frequently visited the shop to read and buy books without his illiterate father knowing. Senor Sempere supported David's passions for reading and writing and is known for holding the belief that an author leaves part of their soul in their writing; that the work they produce is a part of them. This is clearly evident in the case of David and this book he has been commissioned to write, by Corelli.

When Sempere requests that David take on the young Isabella as an assistant and to teach her how to become a writer he is displeased. But he takes on the young woman and begins to try to teach her how to become a writer. Among the lessons he teaches her, one of the first is how to procrastinate; something all writers are experts at. I myself can find any excuse under the sun to not write. Another lesson he teaches her, this time consciously, is this; "Inspiration comes when you stick your elbows on the table, your bottom on the chair and you start sweating. Choose a theme, an idea, and squeeze your brain until it hurts. That's called inspiration." This is a lesson I need to learn. My usual excuse for not writing is that I lack inspiration. I have been aware that, for some time, I have been lacking discipline in my writing and I have been wanting to change that and wanting to write more. But still I complain that I have no inspiration and I give up; far too easily. But I find that if I sit for long enough, and concentrate really hard, I can usually come up with something. This post, for example, is something that I have been toying with for a few days now but I have lacked the discipline to actually make myself write it. But tonight, when I forced myself to sit down in front of my laptop, and not move, I have managed to produce something close to what I originally intended. I guess that's another excuse; I am never satisfied with how my writing turns out, especially if I have a pre-conceived idea of how it should be. But I guess the aim of the exercise isn't to produce something perfect (that's what editing is for) but it's just to produce something.

I like to think of myself as a writer. I've always loved to write and always wanted to become a writer but I've never had very much discipline. Reading books like 'The Angel's Game' always inspire me and make me wish I could write like the authors of such wonderful pieces of art. But the truth is that the inspiration is short-lived and I may never write like these authors, but I certainly won't unless I have discipline in my writing. I'm returning to University in September to study English Literature with Creative Writing - my two great loves - and I want to be more disciplined by then, because if I'm going to study Creative Writing, and have to produce creative portfolios, I'm going to have to become a disciplined writer and the earlier I start, the better. Also, every vocation requires some kind of discipline and if I am really serious about being a writer then I need to get on board. And seeing as I am currently among the ranks of the unemployed, I have plenty of time with which to develop this discipline. So hopefully this is the first of many bouts of 'inspiration' of the kind that David Martin talks of in 'The Angel's Game'; of just sticking my elbows on the table; my bottom on the chair; sweating and squeezing my brain until it hurts!

An angel and a devil danced the tango

An angel met a devil
and they danced together, a secret tango,
and they fell into each other's arms
and down until, limbs entwined, they lay
upon the ground
in a naked embrace.

An angel met a devil
and they fell, deep, into a forbidden love
and their blood
and their bodies
sang for each other's touch,
their kiss.

An angel met a devil
and brought death upon their world
and pain
and loss
and hope stood no chance
in that war-torn place.

An angel met a devil
and they were led out to their deaths...