Clare Green - The Diary of Clare Green

Copyright 2020 Clare Green

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ISBN 978 1800467 125

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For the world; in kindness, health and healing.

My name is Clare Green and Ive been writing all my life. Im 44 and lucky to be alive. There are many times at which I might have died, but instead I stayed alive. Alive to be writing here now. Alive in this diary, in these words which make me up.

Im conscious and I believe the universe is conscious, my soul is attuned to the stars. The universe is conscious and physics can still be true. Why are any of us alive? Thats what Im always wondering. When I have a quiet moment to myself, I think Why am I alive? Why is anyone alive?

What do you believe? Do you think the universe is conscious? Do you care?

Im alive at a time when humanitys problems seem insurmountable. Were in the depths of an ecological and environmental crisis. The forecast is dire, climate change will render large parts of the globe uninhabitable, the biodiversity loss caused by humans is catastrophic, were in the throes of a sixth mass extinction.

So I often wonder, Why am I alive? Why am I alive to be writing here? What value does my life have? Is there anything of importance I have to say? These may be jottings of glorious inconsequence. A meaningless life in the early years of the millennium.

So I transcribe my diaries, my plethora of words, describing a life and trying to find the value. Even if my life is meaningless, Im grateful to be alive, to have had the chance to live. Do I live in this diary, this word-wrapped consciousness? Always writing to stay alive, writing to make sense of life, make sense of myself.

So I give you my diaries, my musings and amusings, to light your own path and perhaps lend some moral support. What is it that each of us can do to save the planet? Become a better person, perhaps, rediscover what it means to be human.

Each of us is conscious; we share a common humanity. Lets unite while we still can, bury our differences and reach out to each other across the immensities of space. Were all alive, living and breathing on the same planet, thinking and feeling, experiencing the joy it is to be human.

Lets celebrate in the face of disaster, find hope when all seems lost, and touch each others hearts in these twilight days of our possible demise. How can we be destroying the planet, this bountiful life, when the universe appears to have evolved with some intention of creating a conscious observer? Is the universe a self-regulating system that creates the conditions favourable to maintain consciousness? What is the point of humans? How come were here? Are humans the universe knowing itself? How come there are so many of us? The world becomes dizzying in its complexity, the myriad of lives lived now.

Here then is one such life, a girl who kept writing, who lived through many deaths and kept writing to leave this diary here for you. The Diary of Clare Green, I call it. It covers the past year or so of my life, my life since April 2018, when I jumped out my living room window believing I was about to turn into a psychopath. I have obsessive compulsive disorder, and when I can I try and make sense of my condition by writing this diary. Its been my sanctuary and prison all these years.

So I leave this text, these notes and jottings, of a life lived with OCD, yet not constrained by it, not limited in any way. My wild-springing soul escapes the bodys snare. I enjoyed writing this diary and I hope you enjoy reading it as much. Take care and good luck!

I think my dad may have thrown away my most recent diary: Im preparing my courage to ask him, non-accusingly. It may, of course, be justified its the one I clutched to my chest during a recent psychotic incident, when I somehow persuaded myself that I was a contemporary Jesus, and that I had to save human life on earth by projecting our consciousness into space. While I had the diary my thoughts somehow seemed to make sense. Now Im bereft, my ideas all break apart and seem to be those of a crazy girl, a hurt consciousness trying to assign itself some significance, some good reason for being alive at this time, on this planet.

Anyway, I think my dad has thrown away my diary. In this family its himself and my sister who are the thrower-outers; Mum and I are the irredeemable hoarders.

It was my dad who had to tidy up in my flat after the incident. Sort through the piles of paper in my living room and scribbled notes. Id even gone so far as to write some illegible nonsensical equations on the white project board that protects my living room table. Id also burned some pages of my diary, so Dad can be forgiven for thinking it may have been something I wanted destroyed.

So what did I do? I jumped out of my living room window. A Wednesday morning, about 7.00am. I was worried (again) about turning into a psychopath (yes, I really could), and I wanted to stop myself before it happened. I wasnt thinking clearly (obviously) and I dont think I had the conscious intention to kill myself, just I wanted to switch off or to alter my trajectory in some way. I remember I had to do it fast else there would come a point when I morphed, and after that I wouldnt be able to do it at all Id be in a living hell.

Im pretty sure now that this seems an idea, a storyline, used ad infinitum in fantasy TV and films. Yes, my favourite Game of Thrones the fates worse than death, for example turning into a white walker or contracting grey-scale like Ser Jorah Mormont. Anyway, whatever the bubbling subconscious seeping through my waking thoughts (perhaps with the aid of Zopiclone), I threw myself out the window.

Luckily she only lives on the first floor, my sister said to my mum. And the outcome could have been a whole lot worse.

Who cares what I think? Im just one flashpoint of consciousness in our myriad world. Just because I write, have spent so much of my life writing, doesnt mean Im special. Who indeed is special in this crazy world of ours? Im not; are you? What about your kids? Why should we think were so special, our kids are so special? Arent we just a teeming multitude, one in which the individual becomes lost? A billion voices screaming their lives to the sky. A cacophony of human noise in which we drown out each other, drown out the rest of the planet.

Unfortunately history gives no discounts. If the future of humanity is decided in your absence, because you are feeding and clothing your kids you and they will not be exempt from the consequences.