It’s been a week or two of tears, dribbling into the phone.

Sometimes, no matter how many layers of metallic paint you apply, it cannot arm you in a real sense, against real emotional pain.

A relatively small thing can shatter the glass sculpture of your feelings and then there’s nothing to be done but to collect up the shards, in a frenzy of blood and splinter glint.

Scrolling through your phone for hours on end in a depressive stupor can lead the mind to thrash around like a half-doused trout in a small bucket, but – in whatever form it takes – you have to wait it out, wait for something to change. In my case, that usually involves the passage of time, a few astonishing sunsets and genuine absorption in an activity of some kind.

Occasionally, an object of desire forms in my mind. This week it was a black diamond, or okay, a black crystal pendant, or obsidian pendant, or black heart obsidian pendant. And after travelling that far on Google, it occurred I already own a black heart pendant. I remember the last person I slept with while wearing it, years ago. I can still feel the sensation of it, thudding against my chest. So, all week, I’ve had a note on the side that says ‘find the black heart pendant’. It could just be there on the other side of the room, but I haven’t tried to look for it yet, and perhaps that’s because I want to preserve the memory a little longer. Once it’s in my hand, it will lose that lustre.

The main source of these recent tears has been anger with myself—for getting caught in a feedback loop instead of prioritising my emotional health and wellbeing, and being shown painful evidence of that in an unguarded moment. I always remember the story of the strong man who died from a punch to the belly because he wasn’t expecting it (even though Google now tells me that story is factually inaccurate). My own body reacted badly to this latest update. Where is the tongue-in-cheek emoji?

Mistrust adds a skein of greyscale to the world, muting thunder, passion. The police arrest peaceful protesters. Why do they do this? It’s nonsense, born of fear.

I read something this week from the actor Aimee Lou Wood. Paraphrasing, it was about formerly responding to bullying behaviour by making themselves more likeable or reacting in a way that might inspire admiration, and that she’d decided to stop doing this. I realise I need to take a leaf out of her book. I am not likeable to all people, and I’ve got to stop acting like a person who could be. I realise how I have pandered to cruelty, carelessness, or simple indifference. I’ve misplaced my own care, affection and attention for too long.

A guy (boy?) I had an ambiguous relationship with from the age of 19-21 telling me I ‘lack content’ has haunted me long into adulthood. Notwithstanding the obnoxiousness of telling a young woman that she is essentially inexperienced, the implication was that I lacked substance or depth. I’ve thought more recently about what it means to be or have nothing, and that that might be something he and many other people might find truly terrifying. To me, superficial, small or trivial things are vital. The layer of top soil. But they are conjurable. How does a person ever make a thing?

Perhaps the real fear is removing everything and finding nothing is all there is.

I’ve been looking through old photos, listening to musicians I’ve loved since that time, reconnecting with a younger me, who is surprisingly full of compassion for me now. One of my all-time favourite musicians, Molly Nilsson, released a new record last week titled Amateur, which includes the beautiful track How much is the world? I’ve been listening to it on repeat walking along the beach at sunset, and it fills me with a sense of shared joy, love and sadness. I found this nice, suitable-for-now text in the bandcamp description:

The word “amateur” originates from the Latin word “amator,” meaning “lover” or “admirer”. This Latin term is derived from “amare,” which means “to love”. The French adopted “amateur” from Latin, and the English then borrowed it from French, initially retaining the sense of someone who loves or is devoted to something. Over time, the English usage of “amateur” also developed a meaning related to a lack of professional skill or experience.

She is playing in London tonight, and recommend trying to get a ticket. I can’t afford to go, otherwise I would be there getting euphoric.

A good friend emailed me recently and asked me if I was in love. The answer remains, and will always be yes.