8 days

For some reason the last 8 days happened so quick, but there is just one thing that I have realised. And it’s not having written. I’m already out of rhythm; I’ve lost the vibe for a chapter, and I also noticed how ridiculous I’ve been acting in the last eight days. I haven’t spent a day on my own in the last eight days. In the last eight days I have been pretending what I’m not. And I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing; showing the ambition to succeed in business, creating another part of me that would make the real me look dumb.

Maybe I’m trying to escape into multiple characters, but I am not, I love and hate myself too much and the balance is always perfect.

My decision to live for my family and to work my arse off has come to a crisis. If I want to pay off my debts, I’ll firstly have to deal with a change of attitude. I thought I had adopted that particular attitude required, but I realised that it was a denial of who I really am. There are so many people in this town who are trying to fuck me over.
It all makes me want to lie to everyone. I’m getting tired of telling any of you the truth. You don’t deserve it.

Looking after my family is the next task and I will have to abandon more than half of my precious time to make it happen.

I’m not sure whether the adaptation of positive thinking has caused these incredibly ecstatic moments in the last eight days. Maybe it was part of that brainwash that I got, but at least it made me happy and ambitious for a while, but all that was not for a sincere purpose. Anyway the positive mental attitude has gone. Just now. It felt strange anyway, but I have been hopeful in the last eight days. I actually believed that I could get somewhere…anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in hard-work. Saturday children are hard workers.

Then I told my mother about my second interview at that agency today and that they hadn’t got back to me, yet. Then she said ‘You probably didn’t get it, then…”
That was it pretty much.
I suddenly froze inside and my hopes were gone.
As if she believed that she and dad will always have to look after me until I’m in my death bed or something.
What am I if my parents really think that way?
I’m not sure how much they actually believe in me to be honest. They don’t even know me except my volcanic anger and yet I live for them.

I’m confused.
I want to be alone.

Why are people so fucking clingy and want to be my best friend? I don’t want to be your best friend. I just want you to count on, because you can count on me. That’s all I want and it’s fair. You know me, I play fair, I always do, but you don’t.

I just want to be alone.
Alone and do all the stupid things that I do on my own without having anyone knowing. I’m tired of you pointing out my mistakes. Don’t you understand that the only reason why I repeat those mistakes is to piss you off?

You worry about me.
That’s nice and sweet.
But it makes me feel like a little kid incapable of looking after itself.
Me of all people.
Me – the most reliable person you’ll ever meet. Mentally more independent than you. I think twice as far ahead as you.
Or maybe I have become an unruly liar. I’ve met so many of that kind in the last few years that I only just realised that my written exposure is the only truth left; the only truth that I can hold on to, but what is it to you?

I no longer fear employers reading this. They are supposed to judge me by my abilities and not my personality. Why should I be scared to admit that ‘A short history of decay’ has become my bible? And believing that the reason of me being alive is because I believe that Sisyphus is doing the right thing?

How much I love Buk, he said that you need several days of doing nothing, just lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, toss and turn and do nothing. With my OCD and discipline, I cannot do that. Every day has a task and you NEED to fulfil it. You need to work.
If you say you are ‘bored’, it’s because you’re boring as fuck, you don’t know who you are and why you are here. You have no purpose, just kill yourself.
You don’t even have to make up your own task…there always IS something that you NEED to do, urgently, even if it’s to save a snail from the pathway.

How bad has my English become? I haven’t been reading for weeks…I haven’t been writing for eight days.

I think I wouldn’t have survived the eight days without the green tea; the green tea has saved my life, it has kept me focussed and removed all anxieties and nervousness. I’ve been looking London straight in the eye in the last eight days. And London, you are fucking ugly, but you have charisma. Unfortunately you use it for evil purposes. Before I leave, I’ll have to teach you a fucking lesson, you son of a bitch.

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