The low girl and lacrimation

A friend said my love life bore a great resemblance to everything Shakespeare – unrequited love due for a miracle. When I hear Shakespeare I don’t think about love. Instead I have images of death, despair, madness and vengeance swirling around in my head. This may be because I only have two favourites: Hamlet – my prince, my well-controlled man of madness and Macbeth – a play proving that women in power are evil.

I read my daily rat horoscope for fun. When reading something positive, I always hope for the best, whereas I describe all negative predictions as bullshit. Do I really? Deep inside I develop a fear and that fear constitutes self-fulfilling prophecy. ‘Beware pointless and devastating jealousy.’ I never used to be jealous in my life. But this is another of those unbearable things that he had left me with.

I was ready to go to the shop to get more fresh vegetables and on my way I intended to pop in at the accommodation office to report faulty in our kitchen and in my bathroom. My extractor fan doesn’t work. Ever since I moved in I’ve intended to go to the accommodation office to have it sorted. And never have I bothered. The shelves in the fridges all collapsed just like the bridge of balance inside my defective core. That was the plan for today – to finally get it fixed.
The minute I was ready to go out, an email had eliminated all productivity that I had in store for today. I am not quite sure who I’m doing this for anymore.
My worst apprehension has come true. And now I have reached the peak of hopelessness. I feel the lifelessness in my limbs.

There is only little that I want and too much that I do not want. You cannot call that picky or fussy, because I work hard for the little things. People say you should be happy with what you’ve got – who says I’m not happy? I am happy. The problem is that I am bored, which causes this current low functioning motivation. Not generally bored; but bored on a further level than anyone else, almost resembling an absurdist’s way of viewing boredom.  If that’s not nihilistic then I don’t know what it is. Or this may be the prolonged punishment for my previous life as an arsehole of a man. But I’m sure all those women deserved it in one way or the other.
I see my problem and it won’t be solved until the novel’s completed. That’ll be the day for me to move on and show that impatient fuck-finger…

The boulder is exceptionally heavy today, even though it’s the same one I’ve been rolling for so long.

All of a sudden the sounds of the Londoner sirens and the foxes’ cries seem very far away. That’s because I’ve wrapped  myself up in plastic. Filtered noise is less frightening. If only there was a healthy way of filtering emotions as well. If only I was runaway android Pris. But no, I am flesh and blood, heart and brain, wrapped in plastic. Still as human as before. Gradually I feel tired, dizzy and all I hear is the irregularity of my breathing. And before falling asleep, I empty my heart and mind.

There isn’t enough liquid gathering in the lacrimal lake; therefore not much has entered the sac and I only squeeze two drops of tears out of my eyes. No more will come. Only two.  Two bitter ones. To clean and lubricate my eyes. Only to clean and lubricate my eyes.

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