I don’t know who the hell I was…talking about love like that in the previous post. I must have been delirious. Now it’s time for the realistic songs…talking about mistakes and epiphanies. That’s more my cup of tea. I drove well today; even my driving instructor was impressed. I think I have my head back. It’s not empty; it’s motivated, despite some doubts.
I started to read “As I lay Dying,” which is tough. The language is lyrical, and I don’t have the attention span for it. But I should always finish what I’ve started. No matter how difficult it is. I got through Salman Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children,” which was unbearable. When it comes to fiction, I prefer easy reads.
I want to move on from the past. I’m sick of holding on to grudges. I keep thinking it’s easy to let go, but I’m still holding on without wanting to. Then I begin to ask myself why I do this. And the answer is I’m not over it. Perhaps it gives my life meaning. Have I learned from anything? What if I make the same old mistake again and again?
It’s like going back in time. I haven’t learned how to move on. I have no idea what to focus on sometimes, and I begin to take steps back. (Is it a typical Cancerian trait?)
I don’t see a point anymore in seeing my psychiatrist because all I do is quietly listen to him preach about culture and politics. I’ve stopped trying to explain anything to him. I don’t need a psychiatrist but a philosopher, a mentor. A French one, please. I think they would know how to mentor me. They would tell me to roll a rock up a hill…until I feel tired and want to commit suicide. Creating meaning is a dilemma itself. Whatever, I think I’m just going to dance until I feel exhausted and dazed from the Desperados. That’s one of my few happy moments.
Why did I stop taking the pills again?