I haven’t written anything on here in over 2 months.
I totally get that these moments of total writer’s block happen from time to time. I’m only human, my brain can only spew out so many melodramatic metaphors before it gets tired of itself. There’s only so many cliches I can avoid before I become a walking one.
I’m not sure why it’s been so long. I’ve been writing things down, obviously. Disappointed little scribbles in my journal. At one point I experimented and wrote out an entire paragraph whilst under the influence – there was a lot of wiggles and a lot of pent up angst, wow.
I lost my muse…well, my muse lost me. So I’ve had to kind of learn to romanticise other things – like the suffocating smell of festival toilets and the feeling of new socks on cold feet. But over my brief hiatus from publishing anything on my favourite corner of the internet, I’ve managed to write down a few short little blurbs.
So here it is; Harriet’s random 2am/ every day thoughts: an anthology.
On places I’d rather avoid:
“I equate places with feelings. And if it were up to me, the train station where I last saw you would be simultaneously the favourite and most despised place in my entire world.”
In an email from my grandmother:
“I went to New York when I was 20 to see if it was any different from Nottinghamshire. If it was the same, I could always come back and settle down. Instead I found your grandfather and no, New York was not the same as Notts.”
I went to the edge and found you.
On weekends that turn into melodramatic moments:
“It’s almost tomorrow and I don’t want to go home.
Ever have one of those weekends? The spell-binding, soul-searching, over-the-moon kind of weekend? I am at the end of one and I’ve got this sinking feeling that I’ll never feel something so definite, so completely euphoric. I feel my youth creeping up on me, I can feel the fire start in my heart and I can feel my toes curl as I yearn for moments that last.
I don’t want to stop being 21. I want nights that beat the sun and glowing embers that don’t know how to die.
I want to carry on living this spontaneously forever.
It’s almost tomorrow and I don’t want to go home.”
“I’ve had a weekend.
A destructive, ridiculous, incredible weekend; filled with sobbing and catchphrases and loving people despite it all.”
On people who don’t know how to stay:
“I can’t blame you for walking away. How can I possibly? We both know I burn too brightly to be extinguished. There’s a ‘no vacancy’ sign just for you hanging over my vibrant, unbelievable, explosive life.”
“Because our entire existence was me trying to hold on to what you used to be, and you trying to show me how much you’ve changed.”
“I hope when you retell our story, you describe me as ‘the girl who screamed poetry at you when you told her to run, even though she was never yours to walk away from.'”
“I’m glad you’ve found ways to smother your grief for humanity, but don’t you dare do it at my expense.”
On what they never taught me in school:
“In 5th grade English class they told us to write down everything with as much detail as possible. They told us that parts of speech were imperative, adjectives meant something.
They never told us that, in reality, adjectives are just as superficial as their intentions. And some people will say anything just to gain a piece of your soul.”
On how much can change over several months:
“I am not the person I was last November. I am nowhere near the girl who blushed electric at your empty cosmic promises.
I am not who I was last November. I got ripped from that body by circumstance and change. I got pummeled into this shape by disappointment. I am not who I was last November.
I am not last November. I haven’t written poetry in months. I don’t believe in shutting out the world any more, I let the cold seep in to wake me up and chill my bones.
I am not who I was last November. I am not a Mississippi sunset, I am not burning up as I race down a wooden dock towards you. I am not superlunary, I am not yours.
I am not who I was last November. I have run out of time; you wasted it. You, and all those after you. I have run out of time and sand and clock hands.
I am not who I was last November. I have an iron soul that can’t be thawed and eyes that flash sunlight. I will burn you up. I will make you miss me. I will drive you insane, kiss you catatonic and then leave you to combust.
Because I am not who I was last November. I am not who you pretended to love. I am not even myself.”
On how much better everything has turned out to be:
“If I end up living a life that is anything short of vibrant, I won’t survive. Tonight I braided a man’s hair whilst sitting on the floor of a bar. I drove around my neighbourhood yelling promises at strangers, I kissed my friends goodnight and flopped onto my bed. I am blissfully surprised at how wonderful everything has turned out to be.”
The bit about festival toilets:
“There’s nothing more carnal or cathartic than finally having a poo in a festival porter-loo.”
And despite all these ridiculous metaphors, here is my final WTF moment:
“Squeaky swings sound like children screaming.”
(What the fuck, Harriet?)
Think of this as a farewell to all the moody posts about something that is now a nothing.
There you have it. The sneakiest peak into my drafts folder.
Not much else to say, except goodbye.