I've spent my whole life with this lack of ability to communicate. I can't do it, I can't talk about emotions and love and shit, I think I can point at my parent's 'marriage' for reference and reason. I think that's why writing is my escape - because I can write emotions, I can tell stories on paper which I can't tell people in person. The end of the episode 2 of Impressions, the horrific sex scene? Yeah, I can't exactly start that story at the dinner table, but in a script, you take it all in.
I've written so many blogs about people. God, considering that I started this thing just after me and Whall broke up, its pretty much the motif of this page - the varying, hilarious and horrific ways in which Laura's fucked up her love life.
But now, I can't find words to describe what is happening in my head. I can't unscramble the mess, I can't pinpoint the pain or even the correct emotion. Its just this heaviness, this horrendous weight which I can't carry and I can't put down. And I want someone to offer me a hand, I want someone to be able to at least describe the load I'm carrying, lie to me and tell me its feathers. But there isn't anyone.
There is me, in this flat, alone, wondering what the fuck I've done. Kicking myself for what I might have ruined, and equally protecting myself, saying that I did the right thing.
I want a fast forward button.