All this nothing

 "I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.” - Fernando Pessoa

Write about all this nothing.

I walk around these streets of Lancaster, and I write it all, inside my head. I believe writing for me, is way too personal. I envy these writers who reflect upon life and unveil through words harsh truths and  those who create whole new galaxies, drive me crazy. 
For me, it was always a way of saving myself from the despair generated by a cruel silence in which I was meant to live. They all encourage you to say how it is, and to say how it feels. But they all lie. 
Feelings are scary, especially mine, I believe. 
And I have always had this sense of responsibility. I don't like to hurt people, I do not like mercy either so I had to keep it all inside my head, so that it does not disturb the existence of others.
They all knew I was sensitive. But they did not know I am crazy too. 
I found out I was crazy by writing about my feelings, by closing the page after, and never read it again.
I felt disgust and anger in regards to my writings. Because I always craved some sort of smartness and uniqueness I didn't believe I had. I never had enough words either. 
It went down slowly. 
I stopped writing in my native language, because it was, again, too personal. 
I stopped writing in English, because these words of mine are the same combination of a puzzle which in the end reveals the same image. I am telling the story differently, but when will I change the story?
Am I not bored of the same narrative, of the same scenarios I disclosed inside my head for so many years, when all I am is a confused child.
In Lancaster, it had to stop.
I came here because I believed in my capacity of writing a new story, and of living new adventures. I forgot one thing, the protagonist was the same. 
And then the joints.
And those many many nights of 'happiness'. But is it happiness, if you don't remember most of it? Not because of alcohol, not even because the loudness of the music was sometimes leaving my brain in some weird anesthesia. But because, what was there to remember? 
Wasn't I, just like them all? No. I was worse. 
Because these party-people, they don't fight it anymore, maybe they never did. They drink a little bit too much and dance a little bit too less, and then go home with a new individual, to have the same sex. 
Me, on the other hand, didn't really fit in. 
I do enjoy, but I have never been a fan of endless nights which mirrored the same girl. For me, a great happiness and a great sadness ended with a different me. Idyllic, a better me. Therefore, there is nothing really to remember from all these Friday nights. 
It's a repetitive process of shallow actions. Shower, make up, clean my room real quick, maybe I bring someone over. I never do really, I never want to. In the living room they play all these rappers, which I now like as well, but are they good for real?
In the good days, I smoke a joint in my way to the club. In the bad ones, I drink JD plain with lemon, even if I hate alcohol. High heels on, too much chest revealed, I don't really care. They call me pretty and I like that. 
I am only pretty these days. I don't remember when someone called me smart, if they do is it because I am, or because they got to know me well enough to understand my actual interests? Everyone has an interest, mostly physical. I don't mind.
This is my problem, and one of the main reasons I can't disrespect the literary empire with my pathetic writings anymore: nothing really bothers me.
I am not bothered by the lack of love, neither the lack of attention. The compliments meant to awake some sort of reaction are, in my eyes, part of a game in which we all willingly engaged. 
I have expensive make up, and uncovered legs. They have thirst and an entire vocabulary meant to spread them. I just have ears and different thoughts. So I smile and laugh back, I am sassy most of the time, I want them to know I am not touched even if I am not bothered either. 
There is nothing much to remember from these Friday nights. 
These girls look at me with madness, I see the disapproval in their eyes, I probably slept with someone they believe they owe. I see the jealousy, I hear the gossips. I just want to laugh at all times. 
How come they came this far in life and still don't know that a woman who is valued by a man, has no need to compete with another. I could fuck or not the man they think they need, it won't make any difference. For them, we are all the same. Once you understand where you stand in a man's eyes, and why you stand there, there is no war left to be fought. Not against him or those 'other women', but especially not against yourself. 
People are too proud to see their place in time and space, they can not even see their place in other's lives. 
I feel great sadness sometimes, for all these envy women and for all these empty men. Just in the rare moments when I am bothered by my surroundings. 
I stand with them all, because I understand the need of blaming another woman for the attention that a male cannot give you. It's easier to think that I am the villain, than to admit that you search for validation in the wrong arms. So I let them be, and walk straight in the club. 
I understand these men too. It's harder for them to recover. 
Something interesting happened to me just the other day.
I was in bed with E., we were smoking a joint between my pink sheets. He told me "I have sex because I see it as a necessity for the body, I don't feel anything." 
I first had the instinct of feeling offended. Why would you say that while in bed with me? But instead, I felt for him. It was not about me really, just as it is not about any other woman he entertains, it is about his incapacity of developing new connections, of changing the pattern. He is hurting still. In the days when men do not disgust me, I understand them all. They have to hide because not being strong drives them all crazy. When I am sad and weak, I cover myself with a big blanket and, if I can, I cry. When men are sad, they develop weird mechanisms of defense, they fight it until they forget about it. Their pride is too big and the aim is too high. If you are a pretty girl, or maybe just a girl, you don't have to do much. Sex, dates, attention are not hard to obtain. But all these have to be initiated by someone, who in most cases must be a man. 
It gets tiring, I believe. 
So I am not really bothered by anything, because I can always find something to understand. 
Too many times, however, it gets me numb, it gets me quiet. 
I prefer to remember these Saturday mornings, than these Friday nights. I feel artistic on Saturdays. I always wake up with a crazy headache, I am weirdly dressed, my make up is still there, fighting strange battles with my dark circles. On the floor, my passport - always gives me relief, how didn't I lose it ? I am waking up alone most times, which I, of course, don't mind. 
I hear my flatmates downstairs, gossiping as usual. Many girls are limited. That's why I always felt better among men. They have more things to say. Women choose to revolve around men and the frustration they feel when they do not execute as expected, it just makes me sick. 
I prefer to chill in my room. The sky has pretty colors, my room is white. I might as well be in hospital- the death of my neurons affected my heart too. 
I always say I will write. 
But about what? The mediocrity in which I am captive, my mediocrity and their mediocrity? 
My life is a fusion of love and hate, which melts together so well sometimes, that it becomes plain. I became so good at controlling it all, it makes me proud sometimes. 
I don't allow myself to have strong emotions about anything really. I love and hate everything and everyone I know in exact amounts. Enough love to give me purpose, enough hate to always search for more and to feel entitle to leave. 
I should like my own company a little bit more. 
I have interesting thoughts, I would get very bored by all of this, if I would not have to carry around this crazy mind. If I wouldn't see all these details. 
I am not smart really, but fuck my ability of understanding nonsense. That's why I was never good at Math. It makes too much sense. 
I, on the other hand, like to find answers in confusing combinations of events and people. I see damage and I swallow it, thinking that one day I might write an interesting book about all this nothing. 

Lotus