Did the journal factory explode?

 Dear Blogspot, 

I miss you. It's been a while. I don't know if anyone will read this anymore. I've never known what to feel, and don't want to analyse it much further. Or, I do, but I can't. I am scared to feel again. I cannot wait to feel again after I quit my SSRIs. I am afraid to learn how little I've been feeling. I am scared to know how long this has been going on.  

I don't think my art means anything. I think anything I make is so I don't die, don't fall into the ground and let my shoes absorb me. I paint so I can speak, I dream better than I live, I die better in my dreams than I can in my waking life. Last night, in my dream, I stepped into a lake and felt the world slow down as I hit the bottom, and knew that I had done it wrong, somehow. Died inefficiently, ineffectively. 

And I've jumped off bridges into water. I've gone swimming at 6pm in the Thames on my own as it rains. I've gotten high off an edible and gone clubbing with people I hate and then walked into a river on the way home, and then went home and painted my body red. My body is more water than flesh, anyway. I am not good at being flesh, especially as I cannot be happy with what I've been given. I want to tattoo over it, build myself up from scratch, erase the musicians' touch from my body, bassists, guitarists, even fucking flautists. 

When I jumped off a bridge into a lake, it was with a visiting student from America. We talked about how cold water felt better than sex, and though I had nothing, or no one, to compare it to at the time (with eight unfortunate ghosts following me since then), I agreed. It's the only time I've felt euphoric. It's the only time my mind has gone blank. The girl had had a small sexual experience in her first term at my university. I still had only kissed my girlfriend at the time. I wanted to take it further, but in an abstract, distant way. I didn't know how to say that I wanted her any more than I had already. 

I am always served warm leftovers, like the poem about the threesome. I think it's called "After the Threesome, they both take you home". The one time I had sex with two of my close friends, it felt like that. I cried the first time it happened. I didn't know what I'd done. I still don't. I remember speaking about it to a girl at my college. She was smoking a cigarette, and told me she wanted to have sex with two girls. One of them would be holding a joint, just about to pass it to her, when the air would linger with unspoken tension. They would spend the evening giggling, speaking of nothing, and getting closer and closer, until they were all limbs and lips and hair. I liked the idea. She had a boyfriend in Bangladesh. 

When I get drunk, I find I tell these stories to people who don't care. I talk of l
overs, my menstrual cycle, how I feel like this city is digesting me. What else can I do? It's digesting me. My body, sex, this city. I am Jonah in the whale. I eat fish bones soaked in fat and bile.