A Grey Earthquake

The rain usually clears my mind. I’m on the train. We’ve been running away from this black cloud for the whole commute.  Home station. Not home station. Unnecessary cancellations mean I have a mile and a half to walk home. The station for me to get off.

The sky is black. I’m silently praying that the rain will be torrential. I can always count on the rain to clear my mind. This is it. Humidity has followed me around all day. Now for the rain: my saving grace.

Paranoia all day. I laid part of myself bare. Something I never expose. I told people a secret. It didn’t make sense to them. Hurry up, downpour.  I say my thought, my secret, out loud and it doesn’t even make sense to me.

Come on rain.

I want us to be friends. I want you all to fucking stop.

I’m frightfully aware of my veins. I’ve never wanted to do heroin but the thought of stabbing a vein and becoming numb. That is the attraction right now. I could never do heroin. Too much emotional involvement is required. I want to self-destruct.

Haunting. Pressure. Air pressure.

Come on rain.

Itchy skin and my eyes are darting. I’m two minutes out of the station. The world smells like piss and shit. Every crack in the pavement is secretly emitting the smells. They whisper to me. “Pssst, this is what the world is made of.”

Light raindrops fall on my head. Give me the torrent.

The feeling of hope has risen in me. Humidity is still there but this. No one is around. My veins are still there. I want to listen to Brand New. I’m not self-pitying, but no one fucking understands me.

I’m aggravated – the heavy rain hasn’t started. More of a shower now, but not the heaviness I want.

Humidity is still there.

Nurse the shoreline like a wound.

Leave me out. Don’t isolate me. You’re all annoying me. Stop doing that. Juvenile and childish. Why did I tell people about what I think about? It was like secondary school all over again when I said “how do I know you’re real if I can’t control your mind?”

That still haunts me.

Rain is still only a shower.

Chavs. Although they think they’re dressed indie. Everyone looks the same – TELL ALL THE ENGLISH BOYS YOU MEET – no one looks any different from another. All shorts and boat shoes. Same haircut. They won’t understand when I tell them they look like the Hitler Youth.

Rik Mayall has died and I can’t describe how angry I am.

Less than a mile to go until home.

I buy my new travelcard for the week. I’m a mess. Fight Club. Marla Singer. Marla Singer. Marla Singer.


I want to go to New Jersey. I want to live in New York. Take me to Portland. People are looking at me.

Is it on some hidden religious level that I want to get clean? Wash away the sins? I don’t believe.

I’m remembering Religious Studies from school.

I know they think I’m crazy. I’m walking in the rain in a short sleeve shirt and skirt and a tank top. The tank top was ash grey. Now it is asphalt. IT HASN’T RAINED HEAVY ENOUGH. POUR DOWN ON ME. POUR FUCKING DOWN ON ME.

Why is it still humid?

“She must be depressed” “She must be a sociopath”

Sleep and nothing else. Just black. Don’t tell me that I need to stop. WHY WON’T MY HEAD STOP?

I don’t want to be around any of you.

I’m at the top of my road.


I wish I could do something with my life. There are no famous Rebeccas. Maybe that’s because we’re all secretly insane. A premeditated life just from the moment I was named. Miss Havisham. I want to be in love. I want to be friends with a summer group.

I’ll never be loved.

I’ve never been loved.

I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I’m excited by my revelations. This happens every time. I’m broken. I always get abandoned. Maybe that’s why I want an old car. We’ll be unloved and unwanted together.

Still not enough rain. Still too humid.

I don’t want to wake up. Or I want to wake up in 5 years time. Why can I never revel in life? I think about everything I regret. A plethora of embarrassing moments in my life. I can’t think of everything because I’ll kill myself. And I don’t have the time.

I feel sick.

My glasses are steaming up. I can’t see. I take them off. I can’t see. Mascara has run into my eyes. Black. Imagine that in your mind’s eye. Like some terrible, clichéd villain.

A Citroën full of a family see me.

“Is she depressed? Is she possessed? I digress – kids we are having peas with tea and that is final.”

500 yards to home.

I’ve never felt more betrayed. The rain always cures me. It is my panacea. But not today. It is still too humid.

Half an hour of walking in the rain and I’m soaked to the skin. It wasn’t heavy enough for me. I wanted it to beat me. I wanted the rain to beat the shit out of me. I didn’t want to be able to breathe.

It is still humid. I reach my front door.

I’m completely betrayed.


I can only describe to you – the person reading this – in these terms. When I go through these moments (a daily occurrence), it feels humid.

You know how humidity makes your skin feel spikey? The pure pressure? It makes you ANGRY. You can’t get clean. You can’t get RID of that feeling.



That is how I can best describe having what I feel to people. But add in that my thought process is rapid. It makes no sense.


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