Poetry

This place is counter productive, sometimes.

I guess I haven't told you much about where I live. It's huge. It's predominantly white, aside from the offices which look like old-timey libraries. Maybe to lull us into a false sense of security. I don't know. Anyway, it's not really about the architecture. That's pretty irrelevant. It's all about The Mission. Yeah, that's what they call it. It annoys the hell out of me, too.

The idea behind this facility is that labels are "unhelpful". So I don't know what it is that my doctors think I have. I was admitted against my will and, as I have mentioned before, I don't remember what I did to get sent here. It might be the fact that, at the time of admission, I had a BMI of 15.3. It might be something to do with the sociopathic tendencies I've been accused of for the last 12 years. I don't know, and they won't tell me. A lot of the "process" is self awareness and discovery. Which basically means that nothing ever fucking happens.

I have gained weight since I got here. Of course I have. I didn't actually have a choice. I am still "underweight". They will never take that away from me. But I'm definitely not the thinnest I've ever been, which I try not to think about too much.

I've started reading an anthology of Love Poems that I got from the book trolley. In it was this:

AFTER THE LUNCH

On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I've fallen in love

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?

On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
the head does its best but the heart is the boss-
I admit it before I am halfway across

Wendy Cope

I like this poet. She's funny but accurate. That's the way to be, if you ask me.