It is unthinkable. I sit here, wordlessly contemplating the unthinkable, and of course, since I cannot think about this (unthinkable) thing - I sit here just... sitting.

A weird sentence above. Even weirder the fact I am now looking at it and trying myself to decipher meaning. If it is unthinkable and I cannot think about it then how does it exist and why am I conscious of its existence?

I hate the term 'writer's block'. I hear it all the time. "I am suspended." "I am stuck." "I have no words to continue with." "I am blocked."

And yet, and yet. I sit here at Ravessi's overlooking Bondi Beach in the middle of winter and... just blah.

I came here to escape the wordlessness. Come on, what better inspiration than a crisp dawn, some few very brave souls in black wetsuits riding the perfect rolling waves, steep slopes on either side enclosing this bay; interesting houses perched in layers, some almost hugging the water, others sitting high, affording spectacular ocean views... Come on!

I had a few drinks at the bar last night. Somehow - maybe after my third - I ended up with a Dutch couple, in their forties perhaps? I recall me extolling the virtues of this country and especially my beloved Sydney. I think I talked a lot? They spoke decent enough English for us to communicate and were passing through on their way further north, aiming to reach Cape Tribulation. That's the tip of this big island. Never been, but there's a sign there - this I know - proclaiming it the northern-most tip of Australia.

I digress. The fact I am away from home - on my own - and now nursing an almost forgotten by me hangover in terms of the last time alcohol and I... ummm - combined forces so generously - how the hell did I get here? And why am I now watching the dawn and whatever else I described above, pad and pen, laptop, coffee and cigarettes, attempting to decipher the unthinkable?

I ran away. Need inside the home, need outside of it, and need within me. Too much neediness sent me here. This part I understand, I know the tendency well: Overthink, overact, overdo. Until the point is reached when I am over everything, and... the neediness I amass around me and the needs manifesting in me - hell, I just run.

The argument could be made I overreached. Landing here on Wattpad, baring my shitty past and spitting words out - the first time I published what I call my musings and the first time I interacted with people (real and otherwise) in this or any other public space - and really, living only for this: The daily routine, up at 1.00am (call me crazy sure) and spending those long dark hours tapping keys and pulling another verbal whatever from my arse. Almost seven months of this daily ritual.

Along the way, gathering people to me. Most of them troubled; some like me lost and confused, carrying similar loads. I am by nature a quasi-therapist. So I have attempted in various ways during these months to 'help', be it tidying up someone's work, chatting behind the scenes and 'riding alongside through rough patches' or - hell, even inviting people into my home because they need some place to escape the chaos within theirs? I think there's a twenty five year old guy who'll be arriving here shortly from Boston? And I've persuaded one of my 'adopted sons' to visit us in October. See? I do these things automatically, never thinking through the idea, just acting on instinct. I answer calls for help and yeah, I give - be it time, guidance, emotion, money, even my home. Every door to me is open, and I welcome everyone in.

It got crowded. Somewhere in all that, I lost me. Or rather, a new me was created, one who gave and gave and gave who wrote maniacally and spent the hours between in various conversations, sorting one issue after another. One, who allowed emotion in, let that ever-present guard down and yeah - who didn't listen when she was told "you take online too seriously."

So I confess, I am here, trying to find me. That's the unthinkable, because I have evolved, and looking for that person of old - the person secluded, hidden from view, isolated from conversation, unable to feel even the briefest of emotions... she's gone? How the hell do you lose a self?

Blah's all I've got now. No funny recollections, no silly escapades featuring number one son, no curious questions and even 'curiouser' observations. I got blah. I got a balcony, some serious cold weather, a beanie on my head, a wooly scarf and several thrift-shop layers trying to provide this scrawny body with some heat.

Right this moment, the urge to shut everything down, to obliterate my online presence is strong. I've done this before, there's a pattern to it, a repetitive running away from emotion. I feel like I have scattered parts of me all over the place again, handed over - just given, just... and there's no one for me see? Everything ends with scattered yet alone?

You could argue I am surrounded by people - these same people holding parts of me who are there, who care, who - I have messages in my inbox and messages in other places asking if I am okay, if I need to talk, advising me to take it easy, to rest - I am blessed really.

But here I am alone; and what I most need is an embrace, someone to cling to, a shoulder to cry on, and all those clichés? A real flesh and blood someone? Not words typed out and emoticons sent my way, much as they do somewhat comfort me.

My loneliness of old is nothing, nothing compared to this. I was comfortable within the old, doing my own thing, settled into a life - whatever life that was; there was some peace to it? Now there's tears (now I regularly cry) because there is only this me me and need around me and need within me and - yeah, only blah, and blah. How is it possible to feel so fucking lonely at the only time in my life when I am surrounded by so many people? Can anyone explain this?

And see, if I publish Blah, I will get even more understanding, more empathy from those few closest to me and even sympathy from strangers. I will get more advice, more comforting messages, more of "you're not alone." Oh but I am! Love and caring reaching me through words on this screen - I appreciate it, I do. Before I left, I actually touched the screen on my home computer, thinking by doing so I could feel this for real? Like the words and the emoticons could be grasped, held, much like one holds close a precious teddy or a love?    

The ridiculousness of that single action is what set me packing my bag and running. I was touching a fucking screen as though the person behind it was real? What next? Me hugging it? Me naming it?

An unintended consequence: My sudden need to manifest something real, something for me alone... There are couples down there in lycra bottoms and what I call 'the virus' - those synthetic light-weight weatherproof jackets that are just pockets of air and can be squished almost into a ball in one's hand? Every second person is sporting one - infected by this virus... Some of these couples are walking dogs, some just walking briskly - their daily exercise - despite the blustery southerly I have brought along with me, because the couple last night said the weather had been fine until I arrived yesterday?

Couples. I sucked at this 'couples thing' my entire life. No way to contain me, no way to restrain me. Yet here I sit, looking down from the second floor balcony through glass etched by salty water and asking how come? And why not? And damn it, what if? What if? What if somewhere out there, I was allowed to briefly taste a measure of this 'togetherness' and test my new-found 'openness' to it? Ah... the stuff of dreams. I am dreaming now?

Strange, to suddenly contemplate this closeness, this being with another, the once detested 'relationship' and 'love' and those curious terms I scoffed at. Stranger still to have this yearning; to experience envy, seeing it around me? Who is this person and where did the me go who considered herself above the pettiness and boredom of a togetherness that went on, and on, and... on?

You guys I speak to regularly, yeah, you changed me. Right now this change is scaring me so much I want to just keep running... Away from you all. I want to leave you behind - truth is awful - and I want to hide again. I feel desperate to revert back to that creature that didn't need?

I've lost a lot of weight recently... or the past couple of months.Contrary to those who feel the compulsion to 'feed' their feelings, I seem to be starving mine? Thin as I am, losing five kilos... it bloody shows. Yet I eat healthy - whenever I eat. It's not the food per se, it's the worry really, and the stress of juggling 'real life' with 'online life' and - somehow, somehow losing my way, blurring everything until it all appeared real? And the point was reached where my matter, the flesh and blood me, screamed for resolution, for someone - anyone - to pull me up, stop me from this relentless emotional uptake and the giving, the giving!

One day the words stopped. It was then I understood I was morphing from a writer to a 'first responder' - be it heeding calls of help from others... or me, me, screaming for some tangible proof that I was something other than a fixer upper of every problem I encountered in others through my words? That I mattered as a person in my own right? It was a devastating pause. For how does one proceed with this unthinkable thing firmly taking over all other thoughts?

Those of you who read my memoir know about my constant creation of what I called "prisons". Situations I brought to being deliberately; recreating the need to constantly escape, usually through manifesting yet another such prison? The question arose whether here too; I had acted similarly, confining myself to a set of circumstances which would eventually necessitate my need for escape?

Trouble is I cannot leave you. Not any of you, despite the agonizing urge to do so. Any of you! So I sit. Blah. Rambling like this - after dumping the contents of the Johnny Walker mini-bar plastic bottle into the now cold coffee... And I am chain-smoking because I will have to move inside soon - it's bloody warm in there, as it is in the many cafes lining the strip - but you can't smoke in here and you can't smoke out there, not within five meters of any eating establishment anyway...  

Yeah yeah, I ought to quit. At almost $30 a packet, I could save a small fortune. I keep getting told this: "Never mind the health issues think of the money you're wasting!" The fact I care little for money never registers; the fact the only measureable pleasure I get out of money is when I transfer it from me to others... that is judged as ludicrous? But what is money if it cannot bring smiles to others?

Rambling blah, still uncertain about tomorrow, or the day after, whenever I leave this place - pressured even here to commit to a decision. Or rather facing the acceptance that the decision has already been made, the 'unthinkable' thought through, subconsciously... even as I buck, send silent screams to one. Missing one beyond the boundaries of what I thought were boundaries?

Missing this person: one I can hold - even for the briefest of time - just so, just so I can lean in, feel enfolded, feel something other than this agonizing aloneness among a crowd?

If I do publish this, blah as it is, please don't flood me with support. I KNOW it's there, I feel it, have felt it from your very first comments. I know the love for me exists in you, I know the gratefulness my words have created, and fuck, I know how much my leaving would devastate you. Don't tell me things I know. Let this be my commentary on how a random woman emerged and wrote some 'stuff' never expecting to be read, let alone understood. Never anticipating this change in the process?

My boys love the new me, they celebrate the new me. Or loved/celebrated- before this pause? My running away has perhaps left them wondering if I will revert to that other me on my return. I don't think they loved that other me quite so much. She rarely laughed and always, always bitched, complained. There was no joy to her, no life to her. She loved them, same as she does today, but smiles were hard to elicit from her. I think I need to explain to them that fundamental changes such as the one I underwent - yeah, the craving might be there but the reverting... not so easy. Despite my wanting it, despite my desperation to not feel, not attach myself to others.

Going to be a fine day despite the forecast. Sunny. I wish instead for it to rain; fat drops whipped by the wind and the view opposite gone. A part of me just wants to head outside and walk the then empty beach, get soaking wet, feel the utmost cold. I would do that. And I might scream to the wind. Just once or twice. Blah is done. Not sure if it accomplished anything. But I did write. Without my muse, without that tethering I had relied on.

Damn it hurts. And knowing the only way to alleviate this new pain is but to hear five words?