Diary of a schizophrenic

Entry Sixteen

21.10.2013

Dear Diary,

It is raining.

It started raining approximately two minutes ago. I left my window open, letting the smell of wet grass and water fill my room. It smells fresh and sanitary, just the way I like it. It’s a warm kind of rain yet it is very windy and thundering loudly. Something about rain makes me nostalgic. It makes me remember my childhood and the hours I’ve spent lying on the cold, cement ground staring up at the moving shady dark clouds wondering why people fear something as quite as beautiful as this.

I got myself a blanket, it’s getting cold. I should probably close the window. That would be smart but I won’t.

I always like to keep my window open. It’s my sort of attempt at being in contact with the world. Funny how that little space between can provide a connection seeming so little and nonexistent yet there it is, right in front, the things we're able to see, the voices and sounds coming through. Filling me with a sense of life that makes me feel included.

It's still raining. Now the window glass is wet and the water is entering my room, spalshing carelessy on my bed. Shit. The skies aren't grey anymore. They're white. The mist is coming down, taking things from my view and hiding them under its cloak.

You know, I dreamed once that there was a cloud at my window. It was right in front of me, a grip away, and I could touch it. I always wondered what clouds feel like, can we feel them? The dream felt so real and I touched the cloud and it was the most thrilling moment of my life. I was astonished, practically squealing. But at the end of every dream, you wake up and realize just that. It’s not real. Nothing about my life ever seemed real. Every happy moment seems so shallow and almost like there’s a thin force hovering above all things bad that are bound to be uncovered. Dreams are ironic. They make you feel safe, happy and in place. And then, at the last moment, the second before you actually wake up, you realize it. You know it’s not real and then you can almost feel the dream laughing at you for being so naïve.

Is there a reason why I imagine dream as a persona? A persona shaped like a cloud?

It’s still raining and thundering and Liz still hasn’t replied.