Saturday 24th November 2012, 1.21am

They say you should write what you know, but so often I don't know what to write. I know that I need to write. That somehow as I exhale my words onto an empty page things start to make sense, life becomes less confusing. Clarity.
Right now, inside me I have this bubbling energy, this nervous pot bubbling below the surface of my chest, I want to cry. It's not sadness, it's not anything, it's this overwhelming feeling I get sometimes when I feel like there is so much to contain and not enough to do.
I'm tired. I'm over thinking.
I just wrote several different lines and deleted them.
Right now I am so happy and yet so incomplete. I know that we should never rely on others to pull us through and ultimately we are alone but I'm beginning to really miss that feeling of connection, of understanding, of unity. I'm struggling with the concept of having everything I want and/or desire and yet no one to share it with. I adore being alone. I adore sitting under my duvet right now and typing away. But a double bed is made for two.
How do you ever know if you are ready again? And if you are ready, whose to say it will ever come?
Writing is not coming easily tonight. I should have trusted my gut and gone to sleep. At least then maybe I would dream. I dream such wonderful things. At the moment my dreams are all focused around touch. Affection. It's divine. But then you wake up.
I've been through so many emotions in the past year. And it has been a year. Since we ended. I'd have to say the main emotion has been unexpected: Anger. I've never felt so angry at the injustice of a situation before. That there was nothing to be done. That we couldn't work it out. That I ran away. That I had to meet someone so important only to have hell thrust in my face after one too many drinks.
I still can't make sense of it. I think it is good for me to be honest for once.
I tried to picture our society without alcohol, without drugs. I used to wish they didn't exist. I still occasionally kick myself for not being strong enough to give up everything for you. You said you would give up everything for me. But there lay the problem. I didn't want you to do it for me. I wanted you to do it for you. And now I sit here a year later and wonder if anything has changed at all. Maybe you've met some incredible new woman who has saved you from yourself. Maybe I was a coward.
You can only make decisions based on your knowledge and feelings at the time. So I can't ever say that I made the wrong decision. But if it was the right decision then why does it still hurt?
Every time I think I'm home free another tear will form.
I keep telling myself that time will heal all. And it will, eventually. It has to. But time is taking it's time...

Tuesday 20th November 2012, 23.53

Coming home alone is a tricky thing when you do what we do.
We spend all day in close contact with one another, expressing emotions, cathartic artistry, touching, feeling, holding, all splattered across the blank canvas of our stage.
'Take it and enjoy! Learn!' we cry internally to our audience. You pray for connection, for them to receive. Relief, or so it should be to leave work having achieved your target.
But wait. once you've wiped away the make-up, peeled away this make-believe reality and find yourself on the dark, wet streets of London, you are alone. Your single footsteps penetrate the heavy night air.
The door shuts, the room is dark, the sheets are bare. You know it's ok. But still, still, so still.