terrible-lies.com

And this is a week gone. It happens. I also don’t remember having seen this wrinkle on you, either. How do you do it? How much energy have you invested in that line of yours?

Repeating one mistake after the other… You may think that’s stupidity, but it’s the unbearable compulsion to stretch beyond that mistake….what more wrong can you do to hurt that person, to prove that you are unworthy of their kindness…
Oh please.

Here is the creator’s third life, yes, a triple life. There is the novel, the blog and the so-called “real life”. And they don’t know, because you’re not telling them. They think they’re all you as one. Maybe you are, maybe you’re not. However, you say, on the literary aspect, all three make you, but they are to be separated, to be separated. It’s for your own good. Tell them.

Yes. Yes you do. You envy all the married, engaged or taken people, but think about it; is your envy irrational if you say you don’t want to be in their place?

If you gaze downward as you speak, then there is error in every word spoken, whereas if you look at them, you might kill them. So there’s nothing wrong with committing errors. People do that all the time.

Squeeze the head of the dead flower, you can still feel the leftover moisture; a sign of some life, or hope that will last a little longer. It dies last they say.

You can’t be you in front of anyone, you can’t share anything with anyone…underneath that grey nimbus, and they won’t ever be able to pierce through the camouflage. And it’s your own fault.

So now this line will forever carry that mistake which you will continue to commit…until they are all gone. You’re walking that line alone, do you know that?
Yes, I know.

I saw him. He bought himself a cup of coffee and as usual he was gazing at his Blackberry as if dreading all the people around him. I used to do the same thing, pretend that I was busy writing a text message.
Now you wonder why I didn’t walk up to him to say hello. I don’t really know. Well, I thought he was with someone, as he was talking to some woman, but in the end he left the café on his own. Then I realised there was no point.
He has lost a little weight since July. The Tintin figure is coming to show. I was hoping he had cut down on the coffee.
My heart hasn’t beaten like that in a while. No, I’m not referring to coffee…I haven’t drunk coffee since last summer.

I have slightly lost touch with my novel. I’m too exhausted to focus. There are so many things that my brain is currently unable to fathom and yet I can see the incompleteness, unable to fill the many holes.

Did I mention I received about four Christmas gifts? I don’t buy Christmas gifts, but having received some, means I’d have to return the favour. But I no longer have ideas for gifts and I don’t have the time to post them. By the time I have time the post offices are closed. I don’t see the point in gifts. Social conventions and human interactions are becoming more and more complicated than ever. I don’t even have time for myself, how could they expect me to have time for them? Sometimes I wish I could simply tape my fingers shut and not utter a word like the ones I’ve just uttered. They are unforgivable. Like, I’m unworthy of your kindness. I can no longer return the favour.

I now understand what Buk meant when he said that you have to dedicate a day to doing nothing. You simply lie on your bed, toss and turn, stare at the ceiling for no reason and just do nothing. I understand that it was his kind of meditation, his moment of calm. But in moments like these I would fantasize about killing myself, which is why they must be avoided at all costs.
When Stuart sent Ellen on vacation, she didn’t know what to do with herself and in the end her dark faculties had outlived her, engulfed her and dragged her into her worst nightmares. Who has the time to face his demons nowadays? We’re all too busy; too busy being with the wrong people, too busy dying with the wrong people. And when the right person appears, you let him walk by. But it doesn’t matter as you no longer have room to accommodate regrets. You’re full of fiction material that keeps you alive and whatever sentiment you have collected can be utilised and transformed into something more powerful. You might call it a living lie, but all I care about is the recycled sentiment that is half mine and half my creation’s. This is how you share. This is how you understand yourself.

If you hold on to the bright, you realise that bright is evident after all. I’m glad there are two sides of me. I didn’t only enjoy the time with my parents; I was being overly perceptive throughout the time when they were here with me. I looked at them with so much more depth than ever. I was observing the very surface of my mother’s skin, each single grey hair on my dad’s head. And I suddenly remembered being three, then five, six, ten, twelve and fifteen. I realised that at those ages I never really observed them. Except that I found my mother exceptionally beautiful and I wanted to look like her. When I was young, I probably never listened carefully to my parents, either. Having spent all these years building and enhancing my ego and getting prepared for its trip, I had done nothing but exploit them. And they are the only people who never resented me for it.
Talking about giving I would give them all I have. It’s just that I have nothing.

Now the sound of music has dispelled the sense of sadness that had engulfed me since they’d stepped onto the plane. I’m not alone at all like I thought I was. My boyfriend Art has returned and is now after Ellen. But no one is ever going to have her. She might have you, however. This much, I figured.

When my mother asked me what my book was about, I hesitated. So she thought it was about her. I was glad to say that she was wrong. Although it has nothing to do with my parents whatsoever, it is dedicated to them and that ghost of mine. The only sad thing is that when I talk about books with my parents, they only come up with that “Harry Potter”-writer. They don’t even know her name. Funny that my mother thought it was about her and all her negative sides. I still hope that she didn’t mean it when she’d said it. If there was ever anyone to blame about any negative outcomes regarding my character, then it will be me obviously and shadows that I was/am involved with, but it will be my fault for letting them shape me and form my face.
Not quite disfigured yet, in spite of the Bacon experience. Bacon, however, portrays a lot more pain; the kind of pain that I am not familiar with, apart from Ellen. The creator and the creation never feel the same way. Just like you and I will never feel the same thing or the same way. We do not understand each other. I can only teleport myself into Ellen’s body in order to experience the same sentiments. There was a moment while writing, where her sentiments exceeded my standards, so I had to change the voice. It was only fair. I know who I am not.

When I watch people talking to each other, sharing personal details, I realise that they all have a reason to talk, but a lot of times it’s for the sake of social conventions. They believe they have a reason to talk, a reason to repeat the same words every day, but in reality they are debasing the centre of their personality by adding more and more insignificant material to their lives. They kept congratulating me without knowing how I little I care about it. The ceremony meant nothing. I used it to lure my parents to come and it worked and the other reason was I wanted to see someone, but he wasn’t there.

I am ashamed to say that I’ve put on 5kg since I started working and none of my jeans fit me any longer. Going to the gym in the evening is not as effective as going in the morning. I also messed up my immune system during New Year’s. The lump on my arm was an infection and the cold lasted for a whole week which is too long for my standards. As mentioned before, I was almost experiencing the same thing from four years ago, except the mid ear infection didn’t occur, luckily.

I shall run ninety minutes tomorrow. The first time since early summer.

I noticed how much I dread the words “We should catch up.” Never have I got anything worth telling.
Another reason why I think I shouldn’t talk is that I found myself lying to a bishop yesterday. He didn’t even mean to be rude. He asked me something that wasn’t any of his business, but instead of saying so, I chose to lie and it wasn’t right. So I decided the next thing he asked me I would tell the truth. Unfortunately the next thing he asked me was “What do you write?” I hesitated. Almost convinced to say romance and drama, I said “dark stuff.” There was silence for a while and I saw how his eyes were digging a deep hole into my forehead. I emphasised it was merely fiction and not horror or any of that sort. After all, I’m not fussed about lying to a bishop, but I realised that’s what I’m like with people nowadays. I cannot look at them sincerely if they ask me things that are none of their business or not of any significance. I continue talking without even looking at them. Therefore the impression you get is I could be lying, but very often I am not. I just don’t feel like talking. Don’t you ever feel like that?
I hate talking about writing, particularly with strangers. As writing is the only thing I cannot lie about.

My viewpoint that gynaecologists should be men and men only has been justified. The nurse made my cervix bleed. She had no idea how to insert the speculum correctly and it hurt. It never happened before with my former gynaecologist in Germany and it never hurt, either. Despite her friendliness and attempt to prevent feelings of embarrassment on my side, I must say almost lost it when she started talking about my modesty. Having had 2 male doctors and 2 female nurses doing gynaecological check-ups on me, the two female nurses have, by far, been the most incompetent. The first nurse came up with abnormalities (which weren’t true!) and the second one made me bleed!
Now my smear is covered in blood! Thank you!
Apparently if the blood has covered up too much of the smear, I will have to do another one.
Why are the hands of women so nasty? So nasty…
And why do women have to go to NURSES for smear tests in England?

Women.

There is nothing to say. No more.

When some people feel pain they tend to intensify it by going over the top (this is when it’s driven by anger. Anger and pain make a very powerful couple and they reject any form of control. Although both are a huge part of you, they don’t necessarily care about you like your cells do for instance. Anger and pain are wild, but secretly they are disguised as Despair and you know what she looks like. However, I still have a crush on her brother.).

What is it that my friends think I am naïve and unable to speak for myself anyway? It makes me feel like a zero who is unable to learn and take care of myself.
When friends think you’re incapable of something and they believe they have to push you through it, guide you, lead you, you feel like you know nothing about the world. Aware that they only want the best helps you to keep your mouth shut, but the truth is they have no clue how less you care. I tend to think (but wouldn’t admit to you) that I don’t need anyone, that I don’t need help.
Here, the undeniable truth is, I need my family. I don’t care about the rest – I really do not. I need my family. Not you.
But, I don’t want to need them.
I want them to need me and tell me so.
That dependent wreck speaks.
I want to tell my mother that there is a lump in my arm; I don’t know what it is, but it’s sore. However, I don’t want her to worry.
I want to tell my family how often I cry when I simply think about them. Still, I don’t want them to worry.

Before my parents arrive next week, I need to lose some weight. I don’t want the first thing my mum says to be “You’ve put on weight.” And I will blame work for making a regular gym visit impossible. I also have to work on my facial expression. I no longer look like the me from last summer.

And how much this place is tearing me apart, I will not leave just yet. I will continue the experience just to expand my chances of finding something better in the future…maybe at home (yes, I am talking about job). While this country here is falling apart, I will inevitably fall apart with it, but my motivations will not. These are the only things I care about and my family. Not you, not anyone else.

You understand shit—

When Dick said that people who aren’t in touch with reality are insane, I wondered how many people are actually not insane. There are a lot of them. All of them around me. Even the good actors, who are, in fact, insane on the inside. If a good actor can feign his behaviour on the outside and adapt to all these social conventions, it means that he exactly knows how reality functions and therefore he is not insane.

Again, you understand shit—

When I think about how year after year I have to think of a new solution to save myself, I immediately get a headache. Becoming more and more sensitive on the health front doesn’t make it any easier either in association with my inability to cope with stress. Each time it gets heavy, stress knows its way around. Two years ago it attacked her kidney and last year it brought rosacea upon her face against which she is on antibiotics since September. Additionally green tea had kept her cheerfully alive for three months. But no matter what you consume, it loses effect at one point or another. And she already mentioned that she was running out of ideas. She never thought she’d be capable of meditation which is why she always categorised it as her last resort. (The gym has always helped to de-stress, but due to work, she cannot create a regular time frame for it.) So here she is, reconsidering the last and only option, in order to save herself.

I can’t say I am fully with it, let alone in the mood for it, but it’s not the time yet to touch the sickle. It’s not the time yet.
There is so much to do.
So much to do.

I realised that the reality of Ellen has become more transparent and conceivable than my own being; me sitting here at the computer, consuming my antibiotics (, as I am not as strong as I thought I was. And that’s because I let something bad fall upon me). Here, at the uni library where I am still pretending to be a student who is working on her big project.
I have started viewing people as merely flesh. If our cheeks touch, I feel nothing but skin and flesh. And I used to feel so much more than this. When I see others touch I notice that there is something happening, but I no longer understand it.

That was the worst Christmas and New Year’s. Being alone is good, but not when your creative mind has slipped and you’re left with nothing to produce on the white sea. Eaten by an influx of emptiness that wasn’t even evident. There simply was too much reality to consume – the sound of firecrackers, the flicker of Christmas lights and then coming to realise that you want to be with your family. And for a moment I understood the reality people.
Life is only hard when you are not busy.

There are many friends with needs. And I do not know what there is that I can give. Watching how friends replace me, I don’t seem to encounter any disappointment on my side. When have I ever been there anyway or given them anything? There are a lot more people out there who are similar, people who do not like to be needed. So, maybe this is why you don’t resent your friends for replacing you. Being a bad friend makes rejection easier. Things can be so simple.

Understand shit again—

Since the pills slowed me down so much, I am now able to focus on every thought and breath. Maybe I should succumb to my last resort and save myself. The last time I was surrounded by this calm atmosphere in my head was the first week I started consuming green tea regularly. If there is good in me, then it is speaking now. The sickle needs to wait.

My hero from last year says that I cannot ever transfer wisdom and diagnosis straightforwardly into fiction, but I have to make something great out of them by myself. I only just understood what he meant.
Slowing down the thinking process indeed is the key.

From nothing you can become everything. If you look at where we are now, we are about to become everything and some forces out there will not like it.
This might sound very sci-fi, but I believe in it, for I am in a state where I cannot think clearly or speak anything of significance, not to mention, create anything coherent. My creative mind is gone. I hope it’s only temporary, as otherwise there won’t be much of me left.

Like last year, the start of New Year always leaves a very bad taste in my mouth and triggers nausea. The only creature I spoke to in the last two days was a dazed ladybird crawling on my Philip K. Dick book. Everybody has had a ladybird on his finger, right? And as you may know, they tend to fly from the tip of your finger. But when the ladybird reached the edge of my VALIS book, it spread its wings and tried, but it fell backwards down onto my table. It broke my heart.
I felt too guilty to say that I’d accidentally stepped on some of its siblings. So I don’t know what its quest may now be. But its lover is still in the corner of my ceiling. Probably dead.

I don’t know whether I should show him the way. If he believes there is still a reason to fly or crawl for, it will do it.

Maybe the green tea is not hot enough. Or I’ve been trying too desperately…just trying, not knowing what I’m trying. If you’re in the middle of a crowded, hectic environment and you watch how cheery and miserable people juxtapose against each other, you wonder where exactly you stand. In the end you refuse to stand anywhere and keep moving until all of them have receded into a somewhat bearable distance. But today they were everywhere. Why they all have to remind me about the time of the year, I do not know.
And then I noticed I wasn’t breathing. My attention span dropped. My brain refused to utter a word through my mouth.

This is when you realise you long for some solitary pastime involving a creative and self-expressive process; either that or you need to get laid. I guess we all need a reminder that we are still there and not…

I’ve once again become a bad listener. I’ve never been a good one which is why I’d slept all the way through history, physics and chemistry classes. In this environment my ears absorb so much, that in the end I only hear a drone in my ears and simultaneously hollowness emphasises how much I don’t care about you. If I have no interest, my sense of focus becomes non existent. Nothing you say will be of any importance.
At work I hear so many whispers with a tone suggesting resentment, dissatisfaction and endless bitching. These whispers and the sound of London in general manifested themselves in my dreams last night. Imagined noises must have woke me three times during the night along with numerous hypnic jerks.

Are you a fan of stories that start in spring and end in fall? I think a story’s process should always adjust to the seasons.
Whenever I realise that even music is unable to translate my current mental state and access my heart, I know there is something not right and there is nothing that I can do about it. Sleep it off. Run it off. It’s not easy.
For the first time since late August I feel weak again, powerless against the concept of survival. There is this uncertainty of whether or not what I do is of any significance; questions about the country’s mental state, my own stability and my debts to people I care about, the only people I care about. This is so Modernist.

What else do I have to do to prove that I am a bad person? Have I ever told you that once I was at an independent cinema, they were showing the trailer of a drama about a man with Down syndrome who was in love. I caught myself laughing loudly. He said something along the line: “I may be stupid, but I can love.”
But listen, I thought I was incapable of loving. And the idea of someone who lacks the ability to comprehend fully made me want to categorise myself as mentally disabled, too. I was laughing at the both of us, but I know this is no justification.

It’s weird ever since I’ve moved house. At the landlady’s, despite the noise and her frequent family gatherings, I felt a soothing brightness; still I was annoyed and felt claustrophobic, but still there was a light. And in my new place there’s a warm darkness. I felt a heat in my room, which, I am sure, will be hellish once it’s summer. And when the landlord suggested that we could cook something on Christmas Day, I knew it was not right, especially if sensing some form of inappropriate intentions, which are actually harmless at its base. If I say I need space, I need it to the fullest.

I remember the best Christmas and New Year’s that I’ve ever had. It was in High Wycombe back in 2006. I was all by myself in the house on Garratts Way. I read four books in less than a week. I never had an opportunity like that again.

I hope you lot enjoyed the dreadful video blog, which I only watched once and never will again, the same with all the other ones. The next one will probably be a letter; a very resentful letter. However, it won’t be as resentful as Kafka’s letter to his father. Or maybe yes.
In Prague, when I left my note on Kafka’s grave, I recalled the dream I had about him. Both of us were in danger, but he only cared about saving his own arse. I resented him for that. The moment you realise that someone’s not loyal and faithful enough; you automatically create a shield which you call self-reliance. It’s not necessarily a sign of not trusting people, though.
Though, self-reliance, after a long period of time, hinders you from asking others for help, even if it’s only a little favour. Because you know they won’t do it. You are never of priority to anyone, except to your mum. And this is why she’s the most important person in my life. But I’m too much of a coward to tell her.

So that was my first night at the new place and like last year I had a little lady bird invasion in my room. They are all funny and dazed, slowly dying on the ceiling and underneath my bed.

It’s the first time that I feel alone – in a negative sense. Ever since I put my novel aside for no particular reason (apart from waiting for the final comments), I’ve been occupying myself with friends and work mates; I have no idea how I have managed to last that long. Both cheeks are still sore from heavy lifting. Socialising requires a lot of energy only to pretend that you can connect well.

So in the last few days I’ve been moving, shopping and arranging my room. The mattress is bliss and so is the new duvet cover. I admit that double beds make you lonely, I’m not even that type of person who encounters that sort of feeling, ever. That’s because usually I’m always writing, which means, I am never alone. But having abandoned writing for over a week, I feel like I’ve been wasting time.
Sorry for criticising you for not being able to cope with loneliness. I didn’t know you were emptier than I am, that you have no creativity to create an alternate world to live in. However, I still envy you, because you can cope in the world with people that I hate…for a longer period. You’ll make it a lot further than I will.
Other people play music or read books to reflect their souls, which is fine, but I want to create reflection by myself rather than having someone to do the job for me. Listening to Nine Inch Nails, for instance, makes me wonder why I can’t create music like that. You know what I mean?
I do understand why you feel alone, but in order to prevent this, you mustn’t abandon your creativity. Utilise it to the max or up to the point where you believe you no longer need people around you. It’s not always a bad thing.

Very often one of your friends might ask you: “Are you capable of killing someone?”
And because in my dreams, I am, I say yes, depends on how much I am driven by hate. There are times where I abandon my conscience. Some people aren’t good with reason, but they have reasons for acting this way – anger and indifference. Again, I envy those who are free of these negative sentiments and are ruled by reason. I also hate them for trying to teach me by seeking to talk. If I had wanted to talk, I would’ve continued visiting my psychiatrist who was convinced that the way I am leads back to being born with an Asian mentality which will be part of me forever.
How ridiculous it sounded when he first said that, I’d spent years thinking about it. Despite being more westernised than most people and showing indifference to my ethnic origin, I did see a mistake there. A lot of resentments and disillusion play a role in this matter, but I don’t feel old enough yet to tackle this issue. I haven’t even mapped out my memoirs, yet. You see how busy I am?
On the outside they say I have beauty that attracts; attracting who and what? Freaky losers it seems. And winners that are on the other side of the globe.

I’m still paranoid about my landlord’s intentions. I hope the tenant-landlord-relationship will remain as discreet as possible, each one minding his and her business. I made a shocking discovery in the bathroom the other day. Inside the shower cubicle are five thick square windows built in underneath each other revealing a blurry view to the corridor. Is this art or full exposure? The previous tenant was a gay theatre guy. I haven’t had chance of meeting him, although I was supposed to get the other spare keys off him, which never happened – a shame really, as I had some questions. I met the gay couple in the other flat next door and I met a lady in the flat beneath. She said “Another new one!”
I wonder how long each of my landlord’s tenants lasted and how long I will last.

Some women are only looking to get married to kind-hearted men who are unable to stir anything up inside. All they want are security, someone to look after and cook for. And I hate how some men particularly view Asian women this way, as if these women were easy to bait into marriage. He might think I am one of those. Another sign of inappropriate approach and I will spread all possible negative energies that I possess.
Unfortunately I don’t fall in love with people, I never have. I fall in love with ideas. Now I understand why as a kid, I always wanted to become an inventor. It makes perfect sense now.

There are people who are not granted love…they are given one chance, but they let it slip. I’ve let it slip several times, because I no longer know how this all functions and on the other hand, are you not supposed to feel a spark?

The novel’s emphasis on the heart is only to depict love differently. It’s not particularly an emotion, is it? My capacity for decay is currently huge, so I need to get back to the novel to minimise the hole as much as possible.
But the thing about shadows…they can expand, shift and swallow.

It’s another of my favourite season gone and I still haven’t made it back to my beloved Edinburgh where I fell in love back in 2003. The autumn colours were good to my eyes and the smell of maple a pat on my cerebral surface. It was a sense of melancholy that had produced tears of joy. But instead of spending the money to go anywhere, I decided to join the gym and book my flight back home. Finding it more important to visit your family instead of a well-deserved holiday in solitude is normal. For solitude, I only need to find a different place behind a closed door and it should be fine. But I won’t tolerate any noises other than my own and that of the boiler. In a town like this, it’s very difficult. You would imagine I’m better off in a hut somewhere in the mountains. Maybe…but ghosts would haunt me. My head would release too many sounds and misconceived images. How inspiring they might be sometimes, I couldn’t handle the overkill. The overkill of anything would drive me towards the edge of what’s left of my own mercy.
Mercy, yes, you heard right. The word just randomly shot through my head and it makes perfect sense, but in a non-biblical way of course.
There are people who can’t forgive themselves and who are unkind to themselves. And those people you can no longer save from insanity.

This morning was my first time jogging through the cemetery. Pretty much all grave stones were moss-covered, the paths hilly and uneven, but all those names still have meaning. While thinking about that I felt a tingle in my stomach. All those names were begging to be revived, but I don’t remember any of their names.

Someone insulted me by saying I was the female equivalent of Schopi. Why would they say that? If there’s one dog breed that I don’t like, it’s poodles. Scarily enough the night after, I dreamt about petting an abandoned white poodle. Poodles are so weird; always so anxious and so full of themselves…
If I say I cannot give the required motherly love to a baby, this also applies to dogs; your most loyal friends. Strangely enough, the idea of looking after someone seems to mean the world to a lot of people, as if they had no other purposes. I feel sorry for those, but at the same time I admire them. At least they know how to function and interact with creatures of the same kind; the kind which resents you for not feeling the same way; the kind that doesn’t understand that a feeling is never mutual.
We may smell the same, but the ingredient of our sweat is of different origin. People never will understand.

27, and still can’t use a basic tin opener, I get confused about whether I’m a right- or left-handed person. There’s nothing that confuses me more than that. So this morning I couldn’t have beans on toast, because I ran out of Heinz beans – you know they have a ring pull system which other brands don’t have! Why would I buy non-Heinz beans? I was so screwed this morning. I was too embarrassed to ask my landlady for help – you know me, I don’t ask for help – I haven’t got to that point yet where I’m shameful enough to do so. And yet, I’m telling you this. That’s because for me, you don’t exist. Not many things do.
But decent tin openers exist and I will buy one today.

I think in order to get the person that I really want, I need to work a lot harder, not for his sake, but for my very own. Maybe I will get to the point where I will tell him “I no longer want you”. Then I will watch him drown in his own perplexity while I cry on the inside shouting at myself for being a piteous liar.
And there’s nothing worse than lying for the sake of pride.
It’s inevitable that every day we do things that we hate. And hating only signifies that we are prisoners of our own emotions – the feeling of being trapped; doing things that we don’t want to do, but our duties are more than clear. You may call it discipline, OCD or whatever, but it doesn’t change the fact that the concept of freedom is only wishful thinking; imagination striving for escapism. It has never been different.
Once you have arrived at your desired place, there will always be something missing.

Going back to Schopi, I don’t like him as much I as I like Cioran, who expresses a lot more anger and determination and truth, while Schopi was just hateful and resentful of those around him, particularly his mother.
I just realised that all my favourite philosophers never believed that life was about something more. To them it is all about staying alive and feeding our boredom.

Please note that all these words I write I don’t talk about. If we meet, please kindly keep this shit to yourself, because I don’t discuss things. I couldn’t discuss things with anyone.
What if we could? Then you must be the character that I’ve been waiting for all my life. I want you naked on my sheet of paper…so bad…

If we live only to delay the end and to distract ourselves from the end, it will make more sense to pretend that there is no end, like we already do and yet, some cannot wait for the end, they even speed up to meet the end.
The only reason why I’m in a hurry is only because I’m not sure how much time is left. One hour is like thirty minutes and five minutes like two. Living in this city doesn’t make things any easier.

Last week I dreamt that I could run up mountains, but now I find myself climbing with dry hands and broken fingernails. This is why I wake up, tired. I’ve been climbing all night!
This also explains my leg cramp last night which felt like a rat squeezing itself through a tight hole. Who knew that flexing your knees and pointing your toes downwards is not good for the blood flow in your legs? It’s an ordinary sleeping position.
My poor calf muscle…how ironic that these painful moments most frequently occur when you’re resting, when you believe that you’re at peace. Now suddenly I’m thinking about John Hughes’s death. Dreadful things can happen when you take a relaxing afternoon walk.
Other than that my landlady had decided to call someone to repair her shower at midnight. This is how out of order she is. And she knows I go to bed between 9-9:30pm. Inconsideration I do not tolerate and yet I am a coward for not saying anything.
I know I am an old girl who currently hates her life. And if my body hates me, I hate it back, but I still care for it.
Also I can’t believe that it’s time again to ask my landlady to top up my metre. I have 50pence worth of electricity left in my room and I know she will say it’s enough for another day.

I’ve met up with my new landlord a couple of times to sort out tenancy agreement, deposit receipt. Now that everything’s done, he’s revealing a little more weirdness and I no longer have this feeling that he’s a quiet guy. I was hoping this landlord-tenant-relationship would remain discreet. One doesn’t have to be friends with everyone. I’m getting tired of this game.

In one of John Martin’s painting there is a man struggling to climb a mountain – jagged cliffs everywhere. I forgot his name, but he is searching for the waters of oblivion.
You must have done something awfully bad, if you seek to forget. But he has made this his mission in life; he’s ready to go through hell just so he can forget. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry about this. However, it’s his strong will that I admire, as it reminds me of Sisyphus.
No matter if good or bad, as long as you have something important to accomplish, nothing matters.
If art and photography are about capturing the moment, is writing then about finding sustenance in words?
There is a lot of art out there and living with art means to make it your own. The originality lies within you and how you plan to post-modernise it. See what Johnny did with Trent’s song. If you want to make something your own you simply apply it to your own life. Why worry about what’s been done and said. I want to know how you can do and say it. Nothing is ever the same.

Without my novel I feel naked and useless, I don’t know what to do with myself. I just realised that every day I wake up it’s to go to work, as if there was nothing more to live for. However, the break I’m taking from the book is necessary.
But I’m dying to read the comments on my thesis and I wish dear Maria would hurry and send them to me. This will be the last piece of feedback that I will receive from F. and I NEED it! Urgently!

Someone please massage my calf.

We can delay the end together…by massaging each other?

Europa is probably the second best von Trier movie that I’ve seen. The opening was a little haunting because I was reminded of last night’s dream in which I saw two hung people dangling from a tree. And strangely, I was on a train myself when I saw them.
As long as precognition comes true via film rather than real life, it’s ok, right?
Young Kessler is the exact image of how I have imagined Stuart McCormick. He just needs a little bit more determination and he would be perfect. Who would have guessed that the movie’s already twenty year’s old? Watching how the character attempts to show kindness, I had to giggle all the way through. The juxtaposition of colour and black & white was fascinating and striking. It was a sudden moment of revelation and truth. And yet, love covers up your eyes as usual.
While already bordering on madness, you realise that your kindness is not, in any way, changing anything. People will always screw you over. It doesn’t even matter if they love you. A lie, a betrayal…remain a lie and a betrayal.
It all ends in agony.

Today the fog covered up the city to give us a Dickean atmosphere. It was spooky, but arousing… When running this morning, my face and hair caught a lot of water – so cold, but still refreshing.
I slept in today and didn’t wake up until half past seven. Some say I should try to go back to sleep anyway, but I can’t. There’s too much to do…
And tomorrow I have to back to work again with a smiley face.

I have been looking at my shoes lately. My slippers are falling apart. My chucks have holes and so do my Fila trainers which I’ve had since Year 7. Despite having a professional job, I look like a school kid on the outside. It’s not attractive. When buying a kitchen knife, do you ever get IDed? As if they cannot see the exhaustion in my eyes, the lines running down from my nasal wings.
I can’t do my hair properly either, and besides, they need cutting.
However, I neither have the time nor the money to pamper myself these days and if I do, I’d rather dedicate the time to something productive like work on the video blog and finish the final paragraph of the novel before the revision process.

Stuart McCormick. I always imagine him as a six foot tall guy with glasses. He is the only heart surgeon to prove to me that a heart can be fixed. There is just no one else that I believe…