Melancholy

I honestly don't feel so well, and anger and tiredness rise in my throat to choke me like bile. It's late at night, Saturday, and I slept at 22:00 hoping to catch up with lost sleep so that I manage to go out later. Yeah, right. I woke up at 01:00 am, too broken to be able to move even my toes. All I managed to do was force myself out of bed to take a bath, and now that I smell better I sit here and write, too pissed off to be able to sleep. I will do that later. There is always time to catch up with lost sleep: when I am dead. Although lack of rest does reduce my mental faculties to that of a dead person, I have to admit that sleeping is not an option now.

I am trying to find the little invisible thread of humor here, otherwise I'll just start screaming and wake the rest of the people in my block too, to share the "joy".… It just becomes too much after a point of time, being so trapped, so unable to do anything I want, so shackled and desperate that I go mad. I go mad with all my strength, coming to knock myself against my invisible walls and howl my pain and disappointment. I howl and howl and nothing comes out of it save maybe for a sore throat. Kari Rueslatten fills my room with her mellifluous voice and all I can think of is my ire and hurt and the need to break free at all costs.

A friend unknowingly initiated this, by bringing me a 2006 diary called The Women of the Camarilla. Upon opening it, I find out that the 'Camarilla' in this case is a role playing fan club for players of Vampire: the Masquerade and other White Wolf related role playing games. I also find out that they are organized in a club that includes six continents and thousands of people, from UK, US, Canada etc, and members can participate in more or less any local, national and international event in any continent, taking their characters with them. For example, if my character is a man called Serge, I can take the airplane, go from London to Seattle, Washington, and introduce myself to the players there as Serge, and be recognised as such. I can take part in the local game as Serge, affecting the local story line, and then return to London and players there will treat me accordingly. If my character screwed up or did something truly spectacular, they will behave to me accordingly when their characters find out. Just like it would happen in real life with me and other people. What they actually do is create an alternative space within reality much like a sorcerer would do, force themselves upon it by using the most potent weapon: creativity. They bend reality and force it to recognise them no matter where they are and how they travel, the same way a shaman would put on a mask and 'become' the animal the mask represents. And reality obliges, if only for a few hours. And I hurt like mad because I am stuck here, in Greece, and I cannot even manage to go out for a single Saturday night after months, let alone participate. I cannot even meet people that if not friends, I would at least call them like-minded. I cannot do shit. Reality spits me in the face, reminding me that the last word belongs to it, and I feel weak and enraged and constantly brood. And bite people's heads off the next day at work.

I looked myself in the mirror before I got into the bathtub and saw that my body is falling apart for lack of care and enough exercise. My hair grows longer, but that's about the only good news that I have. Other than that, my eyes are haunted and dark underneath and my lips grow thinner and sour and twisted, my hair fills with white and I am still here, trapped, gagged, maddened. Who would believe that this 28-year-old would harbor so many people within her head and so much pain within her heart? Only those close enough to hear her stories and pained enough to understand. Who would see Serge, my protagonist, sharing my frail body with me and knowing of my mental pain cause he goes through the same and much worse in his case? Who would see the infuriating little beam of Etielle in me, which he uses to hide his tiredness and searing anguish? Who would ever see Nuare in me, who knows that if he lets himself relax and get attached again, the person he gets attached to will sooner or later die?

Nothing lasts forever, they say, and yet this situation has lasted nearly forever. And still what I want to write about isn't on the page yet. I want to write about my worries and gnawing fear that I will never finish the story I am writing now, or even worse, that it will be the single shittiest, most soppy and inappropriate piece of work that any unfortunate man has ever laid eyes upon, a fucking gay vampire soap opera. I tremble at the thought that I might never manage to escape this existence and be trapped in the gray little nothingness I abhor so much, growing old and biased and insignificant and bitter. I do not want this happening to me. I do not want to end up like that. Yet I don't seem to be getting a single chance to run away, not even a crack in the walls of my cell. Nothing yet. What else is there to be done? What have I missed? What am I doing wrong? What must I do? Is my mind playing tricks on me, refusing to show me what the real situation is? Am I living in self-enforced misery?

I remember seeing this dream a few months ago, where I was in the service of Lucifer/ Saturn, a very stern and impeccably dressed man in his fifties, dark wavy hair and mainly blue-grayish hues on his clothes. I handed him over the list with the things I had to do for him, and there were only three or four tasks left (out of something like fifteen or twenty) and asked if I could be dismissed. He shook his head and showed me the last tasks, pointing out that I had not done them. (If only I could remember what these were, I would throw a party). I protested that they were not so important after all, and even if I did not do them they would be done on their own in some sense, with the passing of time alone. No, he had said, these must be done. And off he had sent me. And here I am still.

If hardship is some form of initiation, I am sure I have failed mine spectacularly, or I am destined to become the next savior of the world. Or something. Or my ass has to grow bigger and very hairy, in order for me to invoke it more effectively to dismiss situations and people.

Thankfully I am not looking for a boyfriend.… Now that would have been verrry funny.