this picture

I feel like I only listen to myself after I've listened to everybody else. I know I only listen to God after I've listened to myself.

What's wrong with that picture?

The name of this blog comes from a Placebo song called This Picture. Farewell, the ashtray girl / angelic fruitcake / beware this troubled world / control your intake / goodbye to open sores / goodbye, and furthermore / you know we miss her / we miss her picture.

The lyrics aren't relevant, they're not even that great on Placebo standards, but due to a shared obsession with the band between me and a friend, angelic fruitcake became the shortest lived nickname I've ever had. It's also been the only one remotely interesting enough to name my blog after. So there.

Today I'm all about that song. The bit at the beginning, I think. What's wrong with this picture? / What's wrong with this picture?

What's wrong indeed. I'm trying to figure it out, to put my finger on what it is about life here, life in general, that I just can't rest easy with. Since last summer, I've laughed more than I think I have done in all previous eighteen years of my life. Since September I've met more people, memorised more names, drunk more alcohol, raved myself silly, felt more lonely than I ever have done before.

I've also read less books than I have in any academic term. I've prayed less, read less of my bible, been to church and cell less. But then, I've cried less, hated myself less, had less utterly pessimistic thoughts and considered what drowning would feel like less. I've hit several new highs, a couple of new lows, I'm happier and lazier and more frustrated, I have endless freedom and I feel completely constrained. I've never, ever, been less busy than I have been here. I've never felt so much like I'm wasting my time and money because I've never paid so much to do so little. I've never blamed myself to this extent.

I have changed, apparently too much, apparently a cheerful Fi who drinks isn't preferable to a stony-faced Fi who loathes herself in quiet sobriety. I'm utterly different, I think, but I know I've never been less myself than I am right now. I know this because I make lists of the things that I love and I'm aware that I'm doing none of them. I'm not performing, reading, walking, swimming, working, protesting, I'm not in any societies, I'm hardly doing anything at all but showing up to my lectures and God knows how frequently I don't even do that.

Here's a secret, and I hope, I really hope that today is one of the days that one of the people who knew me at 6th form decides to read this blog - I was fucking miserable for the entire second year of college. I have literally never been as low as I was then. I left the house at 8am each morning, got back at 5pm, worked in between, rehearsed and read and blogged and watched films, spent my Saturday in Tesco, my Sunday at church (if lucky) and the afternoon with my family. I had no time. I wanted time so much that I made myself ill to try and find it, I worked myself to a standstill just to get some time to myself.

Now I have time coming out my fucking eyeballs. I'm no longer miserable, but oh, you don't know how I miss being busy.

What's the moral of this self-pitying little story? What exactly is it that's wrong with this picture? Nothing, really, the picture is fine. In fact it's beautiful. The location, the structure, the people inside it, the things they're doing, the moments leading up to the picture are full of laughter, as are the moments that will follow it. The problem in this picture of mine is me, that is, you can't really see me. I'm hiding behind everything and everyone I possibly can, completely oblivious to the knowledge that this picture is actually perfect.

I'm sorry. I have to go and learn how to do the things that make me happy, I have to go live this life the way I've always wanted to. Making the most of the picture, if you like.