Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling they are all alone in the world; and that nobody loves them now, and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent nights sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve.
Mollie sits on the couch, staring at the blank television screen. She eats soy ice-cream (because it’s healthier), her teeth clacking on the spoon. She is like something from a screenplay. She is like something fiction and pretentious. She is like an outburst of intense cinematography and falsity, entwined with meaningful stares into space. A silent movie. An over-dramatic piece of moody university art.
To the left: a small pile of fluoro green and yellow clothes pegs, placed on wood. To the right: two open bottles full of murky liquids. Broken candles, split and snapped wax. A red striped towel, scrunched carelessly. An array of carelessness. Above: Plains of soil in fluffy white. Cool blue and stretching grey… endless. This is how it will be.
Mollie hasn’t written anything for many many months. She also hasn’t felt anything. She is an empty shell, often gazing and never thinking. She is extremely conscious. She is aware. She is also blocked. She thinks of irritating things. Her irritating body. She is not very well. Her blood shows signs of worry. Her fingernails are short, chipped, gnarled. A child’s hands. Cuts and dents, blood, skin, an appearance of unruly carelessness. Bruises and scars. She is not well. Irritating. Wrong. Careless.
The wood underneath the pegs is greening and smells of dirt and sand. She can feel the dust rubbing on her exposed flesh. She rarely exposes flesh .It feels strange, exposing things so obviously.
She is alone in a house that is cold and full of echoes. The house contains a simple and somewhat boring history… a history that no one would like to hear about. It is a pretentious house, full of dark wood, glass, shiny surfaces. It is silver and hallways and exposing light. When the house is full, she is still alone in a house that is cold and full of echoes. Five simple and knowing bodies, hiding and living straight lives. One is scared. One is false. One is worry. One is gritted teeth. The other is Mollie. She thinks of Gritted Teeth. It makes her nose itch. She sniffs.
Mollie shares a careless balcony, with gritted teeth. She is someone that breaks hearts, but then offers in a note outside your door the reason for doing so.There was no reason.
Mollie looks at the pile of pegs to her left again. She looks down to her breasts and sees a fine layer of dust and sand from the yellowing, dark wood underneath her and the pegs. She sniffs. She is not well. She can feel it in her blood. She worries. She sniffs again and looks at the pegs. She thinks about the pegs but doesn’t turn. What’s wrong with her?
There is something wrong with Mollie’s heart. It is like a magnet, or perhaps a mousetrap. She thinks of a small piece of cheese, sitting and tempting its bait for a sniffling rodent. She has never missed her prey.
Being young always comes after a but. “But she’s so young. She’s only 18.” Mollie hates that more than anything.
Mollie is cold and also quite sorry. She feels stupid. She feels foolish. She feels old and she feels anger and she can feel gritted teeth grinding in my head. Mollie’s tears come in blots, and then thin trickles. They sometimes enter her mouth. When they do, she thinks that they are probably the same tears she has cried before. Maybe last time, or the time before. Mollie feels alone, and like her heart is a shell. There is no tortoise or hermit crab inside, just a shell. Just another possible housing option.
Mollie sees bitterness in her heart and silence in her mouth. The silence has always been there, but the silence has morphed and festered It is not a humble silence anymore. The bitterness is new anad it frightens her.
Mollie realizes that she is sadder than others realize. Mollie realizes that gritted teeth stain her mouth with blood. She has stained her heart. Mollie is alone with no friends. Mollie is worried about herself. Her legs are dry and somewhat hairy. The bumps are itchy and irritating. Knees. Her body is as aggravated as her mind. Mollie is aggravated. Things move but only if they have momentum, or perhaps a reason. Or perhaps if you make them move. Mollie doesn’t make them. And so nothing moves.
Flakes of skin are pulled of ankles. Scratching a head. Painting of toe nails. Red, of course. A gift. A first thought, with no second thought at all. But: “MOLLIE IS STILL SO YOUNG.” (Sometimes she herself uses it as an excuse. Mollie is also a hypocrite).
It’s cold opposite the pegs, so she goes inside: it’s colder. She is not as exposed now but it’s still cold. She lies on her small bed and sniffs loudly. She’s alone. Mollie has the urge to read all that she has written, but she doesn’t. She’s scared that she will never be able to write again if she stops. For months and months. And so she continues. Her pen is light and sporadic, not constant. She does not swap it… it remind her of her mind and her thoughts. Maybe it’s lucky. Maybe it has the urge to write, and not her. That would make more sense.
Mollie misses having literal and metaphorical neighbours. They are integrally important to Mollie’s sanity, and to the knowledge that she is not completely: a) - Alone, or b) - Hopeless. When Mollie is neighbourless, Mollie sometimes, no, often forgets this. Mollie currently requires a reminder. Well, she would like one at least.
Too tall for her small fold-out bed, she often drapes across it and stares out the window to the swaying palm trees and other leaves she can see, through the thin, metal rope wires. She thinks about what she thinks about when she sees them: nothing. Her mind is literally blank.
Mollie sighs a lot. Her eyelids droop a lot. She sniffs a lot. She worries a lot, and gets irritated a lot. She cries a lot. Mollie constantly says to herself that she needs to clean. Mollie rarely cleans.
Mollie thinks about endings. Her life would freeze where she chose it to freeze, and she would be unable to unfreeze it. People would be sad. People would cry, perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Before Mollie left the screen, she would write a lot of words to quite a few people: neighbours, people that make Mollie Grit her Teeth, Chefs, Managers. Some apologies: to older loves. Perhaps others. Mollie is sadder than she first realized. Mollie scratches her elbow. She feels talentless, alone, hopeless and somewhat itchy. She looks at her fingernails. She feels more irritated than before. She sighs. She grits her teeth. Her pen continues to scribble: a surprise. Her mousetrap contains a struggling victim.
Mollie lies a lot. Mollie can see the same stupid pile of pegs through the glass that she stares out of when she’s draping over her bed. Mollie hates those pegs. Mollie hates. Mollie loves too. Mollie loves a lot. Mollie finds that the loving is much harder. The loving is much more scary. It is still, because a lot of the time the love is not returned. Mollie is impatient. She is sadder than others realized. She is sadder than she first realized. Mollie would, right now, like a tight hug and a couple of reassuring words, maybe more. Mollie would like her empty shell heart to refill. She would like the bitterness to leave. Mollie sighs again. Mollie lies a lot.
Mollie hasn’t written for a couple of hours. She watched a movie in between. She wasn’t particularly interested in it. She was distracted and sniffling a lot. Mollie notices salt and pepper on the table. She is watching a terrible game show. She is worried about her body. She is also worried about her mind. She is sitting in her echoing house. She is irritated. She doesn’t think she has anything else to write. ‘The pen is tired,’ she thinks. ‘Its’ luck has run out. It is very tired.’ Mollie’s mind is tired.
I feel romantic.
No one knows anything about me. I hate it but I can’t change because I’m too scared.
It Felt Love
Did the rose
Ever open its heart
And give to this world
It felt the encouragement of light
We all remain
Theatre Of Kittens.
Anonymous asked: Is the person leaving you the person you love?
ha no. well yes. well i love the person leaving but not in the conventional corny, romantic love way. its more important than that i guess.