The coffee table

Still losing a handful of hair. It makes you no longer want to run your fingers through it. Priorin is taking too long to take effect; it’s also supposed to regulate my hormones, but I feel nothing.

The first line of “The Travelers” goes I think I’m happy on a green autumn day. Maybe if I live my days according to beautiful lyrics my heart will change. My unfinished poem to autumn might as well be binned and forgotten, not to mention my letters addressed to the “I” in five years time. I don’t have enough faith in my recent writings to create sufficient motivation. Driven by a sense of embarrassment and shame makes me want to stop writing completely and do something else instead, but I can’t create some new skill from out of nothing.

Minor keys brushing along the surfaces of my brain and Dexter’s lack of monologue towards the end of the last episode soothed me somewhat… Maybe one single look is all you need. Here’s a crucial reminder that you are there. But it’s never enough unless you have sufficient people that reflect you as a person and make you feel like one as well. That used to scare the shit out of me. Reflection. It’s fine as long as they help to justify who you are, but if they identify a trait that you weren’t yet aware of then you might as well surrender and become his/her disciple. But the student years are over.

When Francis asked me what I wanted it had taken me over six months to figure it out, but only to realize that I do not want it at all. Once I have it then what? It’s what she wants, not me.

I wonder whether I should send him the promised postcard or whether he is already in the States promoting his book. But I did promise to send one from Vancouver, though.

I hate how I keep my promise for everyone except me, but I did promise myself to keep things beautiful, collect more beautiful memories, which means composure and knowing my own limits, if there are any. We shall see, eh?

When I read The Child that Books built I was mesmerized by Francis’s honesty and language. And I want to be just like that. I guess my long-term weakness was the result of an excess of Wilde, Dostoevsky, Kafka and Houellebeccq with an in depth focus on self-identification with all the flawed characters that remained in the abyss with no intention of gazing  at the stars.

But I’ve always had hope…(and fantasies about screwing the writers in my head…)

I just never bothered taking enough action to make things better.

At least I refuse to stagnate. I have a bit of a plan now, although not a perfect one, but reloading my dreams keeps me going

You are supposed to learn from these fictional characters, be one step ahead and see things coming before they do, no matter if you are the reader or the writer.

If I went for a coffee with Wilde, Dostoevsky, Kafka and Houellebeccq I’d be in the claws of a hedonist, a lost soul, a coward and a pessimist. Instead of a tea break it would be a trial about life and death. How could I refrain from falling in love with all four of them that bring me so much challenge? So fascinatingly ugly and yet so hot! Despite wanting to be a saint, I am not strong enough yet to be anyone’s savior and might even need one myself. And these imaginary guys at the coffee table know, because we’re all in the same boat.

 

I want to be the first to disembark.

 

 

 

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