“Breathe in. Breathe out.” Darling, do you not understand? “Breathe in. Breath out.” The face is wet. “Breee in. Brea out.” Hand the child its bottle. “Bre in. Brea out.” 1.32pm, still 1.32pm. “Br in. Bree ot.” A dying disposition. “Breth-n. B-out.” Loosen the tap. Please! “Breeeeeeeeeeee in. Bee out.” Veins of pulsation. “Brrrrrrrr In. Ot.” Lollipops are leaking. “INNNNNN. OUUUUT.” You ask the child to breathe and yet, you gave them no lungs. Can you walk without your legs? “Breathe In. Breathe Out.” Fuck your breath. The child is still.
For the past two months I have been chipping away at a sculpture in an attempt to show with it humanity. I was unsatisfied with how the media tends to only nurture the stories of the rich and famous, and thought that by profiling everyday people in my life, I could show the grit of the ‘ordinary’. Did I succeed? No I did not… the people I interviewed did.
Whether it be Maxine and the revelation she came to with her first child, Saskia and the songs she conjures from torture, or Emma and her experience at an eating disorder clinic… they were the ones that shared with the world their narratives, and in doing so, got people to consider the kind of narratives they consume.
Those I interviewed are inextricably tied to my existence and therefore, in some abstract way, I’ve been painting a picture of myself. Now it’s time to unveil it. Who is Thorne? Perhaps if I answer some of the questions from previous interviews, the answer will emerge. Continue Reading
He tells me he loves me and I try and imagine that love. It’s unconditional like they say it is, and yet I convince myself of its conditions. He loves you because you’re broken. He loves you because you’ve trapped him. He loves you because he doesn’t know that if he wanted to, he could love someone else. I lay in the bed and await salvation. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes it takes weeks and sometimes I think it may never come.
He joins me on the throne of pity, falling beside my projection. He takes my hand from under the blue sheet and holds it in his own. I’ve never been able to fathom the softness of his skin. The texture of silk, the colour of sand, and the wear of a child. It brushes over my being and for just one moment, I am okay. The thing about moments though, is that they only last a moment. Continue Reading
Thursday afternoons are my favourite afternoons. I push my key into the door, discover only silence and then bask in it. To be honest, the reality is a little less graceful than that but still, on afternoons like this, I am the King and Luke is free. We stumble into the house, drop our disguises and open our mouths to the sweet, sweet taste of Captain Crunch. As our stomachs begin to pity us, the television gives its performance. Maybe Batman is on, maybe SpongeBob is on or maybe even Thomas the Tank Engine is on… no matter the show, we watch. Luke watches because it makes him happy and I watch because it makes him happy.
The beginning of the news is our warning. He soon bashes on the door, expecting it to bow down but everyone knows that it only does that on special occasions. I pick myself up from the big armchair, his armchair, and pace towards the entrance of my Kingdom. As soon as I twist that handle though, it is no longer my kingdom. Continue Reading
Alcohol is a peculiar potion; a single glass of it containing hysteria. My sense of self becomes one that I can no longer control. It’s almost as if the prisoner within me, the prisoner that is me, is set free. My inhibitions become myths, a once upon a time fairytale. I listen to the music, the music in the speakers, the music in the air, and I am taken into the rhythm of all sound. My body begins to mimic the beat but then it becomes the beat, speaking only the language of dance and truth. I see those around me, not as reflections of my worth, but as reflections of life. I speak to them with an honest tongue, liberating their prisoners, placing crowns upon their heads. I do not know the science of this, I do not know how, but yesterday I wished for death and today I wish for a thousand years. All that I deemed impossible has proved me wrong, and now everything sits in the front of my mind demanding manifestation. I can do everything, I think. Actually, I can do everything, I know. However, what I don’t know is that when dawn comes, the shadows will too. I will be locked in darkness, once again dreaming of escape, and a man that is allegedly me, will pick up a gun and hold it to my head.
Statistically speaking, the majority of us will never be royals because only 1% of us can be the 1%. We all have dreams, we all have creative expression and we all have a genuine desire to be distinguished from our pairs. For most of us though, none of it will ever be reciprocated. How do we continue with our lives knowing that our dreams may remain dreams and that our lives may never be remembered? Continue Reading
I am barely half-way through the new Netflix show ’13 Reasons Why’ and I cannot breathe. The television show depicts the life of Hannah Baker and how the world fell upon her. After taking her own life, she leaves a series of tapes detailing the reasons for her death. They all relate to the people who have hurt her and the situations that she could not escape. It is the first true depiction of suicide I have seen in mainstream media and the first that has been able to capture my grief. Continue Reading
The strangest thing happened today I encountered myself. I have been walking the earth for twenty years but I have never been able to see whom is doing that walking. Today I saw. I attended a university class named ‘Creative Writing: Voices’ and was forced to look upon my soul in all of its glory, in all of its distain.
I consider the act of writing to be innate. It is more than part of my existence, it is the reason for my existence. Weaving words together is a thoughtless task, one that I would compare to breathing. You don’t calculate the way in which you breathe, you simply breathe and I don’t calculate the way in which I write, I simply write. That is how it has always been and the child within me thought that is how it would always be. That child was wrong. Continue Reading
It has nearly been a year since I had an eating disorder. I cannot describe to you the exact moment I was cured, but in more ways than one, I would say that I am. I no longer refuse myself the nourishment of food, hinge my worth on weight, lock myself in my room, destroy relationships and loathe life.
Despite my achievements, there is one thing that has been immune to all antidotes; My mind. It has been scientifically proven that repeated behaviour causes certain neuron paths to become etched within the mind. That is what happened to me. Months and months of self-hatred and restriction slowly became normalised and now, even though I am recovered, I struggle to expel certain thoughts. Continue Reading
That day I arrived I could see it in your eyes. It was pure impurity. You hated me. I stepped into your world, ripped down all of the walls and took the attention you held. I didn’t mean to though. It was the first time that I had met him. Your Dad was now mine. The man that had guarded you for twelve years, the man that had invested his entire spirit into your upbringing, he was now mine. I call upon the moment you denied such a reality, the morning you forced me to the ground. At first it was your eyes which nested your anguish, but now… it was your fists. Day by day you diminished my body. Each punch gave birth to new emotions. I didn’t think it was possible for a boy of my age to hold the feelings I held. You changed all of that. One punch… I question my wrongdoings, two punches… tears saturate my pillow and three punches… I turn on myself. I often thought about fleeing but I knew that I couldn’t. Nobody else wanted me. Continue Reading