Lost.

I'm feeling alone, ostracized. I've completely lost who I used to be, and am rapidly becoming this new girl. This new girl who I would never have associated with in the past, a chronic smoker, toker, a girl who doesn't give a shit about school, a girl who is so indifferent to those around her. A girl I would have hated just a few months ago. A girl like me.

I've changed. Who I was is no longer who I am. Who I was is gone, dead, killed in a fatal accident between a girl and her depression. My friends don't know how to deal with this. They don't like who I've become, don't like my new addictions. They talk about it behind my back but are pleasant to my face. I can't deal with it. They can't deal with it. We cling to this semblance of friendship even though we all know how strained it is, how excluded I really am. I feel like I have no one anymore. My confidante is so faraway, my (almost) boyfriend distracted and sharing my addictions.. my former best friends huddle in their group, opening up for me when I come around, but we're too different, really. I love them so much, but they can't accept who I've become, and who can blame them, really?

I can't help this, though. I am just so lost, drifting, confused, indifferent, dust particle in skyway haze. Who am I? Who am I, really?

A fuckup, a stoner, a smoker, a burnout? Attention-seeking whore? (On that note, rips mended, Carissa's character completely changed, laughter, friendship? Weird, double-take).

Today was a bad day. Sorry for the rambles.

Work.

A dreaded word, bringing awful anticipation for the masses. An exchange, a barter - service for money. Necessary, but I question the validity of our society's philosophy. How can we expect people to throw themselves away in dead-end jobs, struggling to make ends meet? How does that improve their lives, make them worth anything? Isn't the whole point of life to do something worthwhile and to enjoy yourself?

Questions aside, work has a strange effect on me. I'm usually sleep-deprived and exhausted when I take up position behind the sickly, jarring yellow of the cash registers, and for the first hour, I'm cordial and smiling, settling into the verbal routine. It's static and unchanging for the most part: "Hi there, how are you? Good, thanks. It comes to (total). Debit? Go ahead, stripe out. Here's your change, have a great day." It becomes so automatic that my brain literally shuts down. There is no cranial activity there. I am in a daze, hardly glancing at people as they drop their groceries on the belt and pick through their change with germ-infested fingers. My eyes stare blankly at the scanner. Of course I'm not comatose, but for the most part I am unaware of my surroundings, my short-term memory shot to bits. This takes place gradually: for the first hour I am perfectly aware. The second hour, I slip a little and refrain from offering non-mandatory statements. The third hour goes by in a daze, as does the fourth. The last hour perks me up, and I am happier as I time my last few minutes behind the desk. The monotony and repeated questions and answers deplete my resources and I end up too tired to deal with it proactively.

Weird, right?

Lobes.

So here I go again. Even though I know and understand what is hanging in the balance. Even though I realise how defiant this really is, this evading of the rules, deliberate misconstruing of parental guidelines. I didn't get caught yesterday when I circumvented their wishes and got high. Embarrassingly, out of control high, possibly alienating a friend. But I pulled it off without their knowledge. Guilt, yes, but also exhilaration.

This is different. This isn't a one time thing, home safe, several-hour defiance. This will be noticed. This is for a lifetime.

No more piercings, they said. No more needles through your skin. Fair enough, although I plan on pleading for a more lax viewpoint. Fair enough for me to follow their rule, at least for a time. But body mods are addictive. You can't stop once you've had a taste. If I can't stick needles into myself, I'll adjust the mods I've already gotten, I reasoned. Lobe stretching is common. Even though I know how much they hate this, how it will make my mother cry, I am selfish enough to need to express myself this way. I need to change, stretch the boundaries and learn how far I can manipulate myself. How much I can get away with.

My preliminary research severely lacking, I got bad advice from the girl at Rock Universe - the only person I've ever met who actually looks good with snakebites - and headed home with acrylic plugs and taper. Bacteria love acrylic, harbour there gleefully. I'll remember to buy metal or glass next time, although this decision will deplete my wallet horrifically. It's worth it, though, because I am prone to infection. Stretch, stretch, plugs in. Now I will wait, wait, wait.

Finally some relief for my masochistic side; the burning of newly stretched lobes is enough to curtail my need for more extreme measures.

What art gives us

Moebius may be my favourite artist, or at least in the top three. I love his style. His subject matter is often surreal or science-fiction-like, almost magical - something that greatly appeals to me. And his use of line is terrific. There is always some sort of detailed bit that you miss at first, then discover with a small spark of excitement.

This is far from his best piece, but there's something about it that both draws me in and repulses me. It makes me a little uncomfortable to look at it, a jarring sense of impossibility, that sheer terror of falling. A concrete pterodactyl soaring through the sky? His rendition seems so heavy, as if it will tumble at any time, that I find myself unable to look at this image without feeling that heaviness within me.

Regardless, he is a master artist.

Moderate Amnesia

That's a frightening feeling, you know. Losing that memory. Split second glimpse before it's lost in muck. Your brain feeds you a snippet of words, a feeling, an idea, and it floats there, glimmering just out of reach. Your eyes shift to the side, momentarily distracted, and the idea just - disappears. Gone. Then you reach backwards, trying to recall, recollect, but you're met with emptiness. There is nothing to be found.