I sat by the Thames and watched the water flow effortlessly as the wind danced across it. My whole body felt the cold chill as it penetrated my skin and I shook beneath my tracksuit top. The only warmth my body could find was in my tears that caressed my skin delicately. I could hear the seagulls as they stood proudly on the ledge, looking out across the dock, staring at the world around them. My cries got louder as the thoughts kept running through my head and the idea of tomorrow seemed like an impossible challenge; yesterday had become a burden, just like the other days. The cries were soon drowned out from my stomach growling, desperate for food, which I had deprived since last night. Yet beneath my tear stained vision, I continued to glare at the water. It looked cold, as was I right that second. But I could never jump in, no matter how much I thought about it.
One of my favourite people, George Watsky, once said "the only people brave enough for suicide are the cowards", so what does that make me? Am I a coward for not doing it? Or am I brave? I don't feel brave.
I then stood up and looked around me. Pigeons everywhere and a man taking pictures of them. Boats in the water, going past, as they transported people across the Thames. I went for a walk and I listened to everything around me. The sounds of my heels tapping on the pavement, creating a euphoric musical masterpiece that I had complete control over - I could change the tempo, the pace, the volume etc. The wind swayed past me and the whooshing sounds were peaceful as they stroked my ears, messing my hair as the strength intensified as I walked further along. The leaves scratching the pavements were therapeutic and the actual image of it was beautiful as it showed the last remainders of life before winter fully evolved. What struck me most was the chatter from the public. It was so gentle. We humans sound so quiet when you actually think about it; the fact we're designed to be able to communicate effectivly with people close up to us. Animals need to communicate from long distances and that really struck me when even the child screaming sounded so quiet.
Yet it was my heels on the floor that really soothed me. I could control the sounds that were made. The sound of a heel connotes so many ideas: intensity, passion, fear, isolation - so how do we decide which one is most appropriate. I guess that's what my life is like at the moment. I feel too much. I feel more than what my body can actually take. It's like I have all these emotions and I need to juggle them all at the same time, but I can't; not one my own. Now I'm at a point where I don't feel happy and that feels almost selfish. The fact that I have been given the opportunity to study Drama at a beautiful University, like Greenwich; meet wonderfully nice people who have been nice to me, just for me to doubt their intentions. Surely if they willingly sit next to you, it must mean they like you. Surely if they willingly engage in a conversation with you, it must mean they're interested in you. Surely if they ask how you are, it must mean they care about you. Yet why does my mind doubt this and as a result, make forming relationships harder than what they should be?
George Watsky also said this:
"Didn’t you hear kid?Maybe in a few years I'll look back on these days and wish I could do it instead. Who knows? Who knows, indeed.
You have a couple more years left/
before your dreams are crushed by the weight of the world.
So get your kicks while you still can."