If I fall, I shall fall bravely

I can’t think of anything more complicated than the attempt to connect with other people. It’s easier talking with faces that emerge from your bedroom wall at night time, except that you feel scared when you don’t know what they want. My dreams have been weird; I can’t see anything. I only hear people talk even when my eyes are open. No, it’s not schizophrenia. I suppose I’ve been at too many crowded places lately where everyone talks at once, and I can’t grasp any coherence or meaning or see the relevance of being there.

And yet…

I haven’t seen the beauty of this year’s autumn yet. The leaves are still summer green, which makes me think of some unfinished work; therefore, we can’t move on. Whatever it is, please bring it to an end: kill it, smother it, and move on…

Unfortunately, it looks like I won’t make it to Edinburgh this autumn.

Why would I read my Chinese horoscope every day, although hardly anything applies to me, and I don’t believe it? Well, horoscopes inspire me in a way (not in a self-fulfilling prophetic way); they sometimes make me more optimistic. Ever since the day I made friends and enemies with Schopenhauer, I lack positive thinking, and the bright side of life is nothing but an ephemeral sweet taste on my tongue, which I can’t enjoy because I know it will go away. However, this doesn’t mean that I’m a pessimist or a cynic, and I know darn well how to defend myself.

I see many beautiful things, but it doesn’t mean I want to share them with you or anyone (although I will when I’m ready). I will show what it’s like being in love and not knowing it, not realizing it, not wanting to realize it. I’m no realist, either; I approach everything without expectations. So whoever wants me to speculate will end up encountering some paradox. If there’s no evidence, there’s no truth in whatever you’re looking for. That’s why I don’t trust biographers, especially those who have never known the person they’re biographing about. If anyone ever dared writing about me and my life after death, I will haunt them until they lose their mind and become me. I’d have to possess their bodies.

I smile a lot behind your back. If I love you, I smile at you through Plexiglas. If I care about you, I text you a smiley. Does this make me a bad person?

Hate is usually spite-driven, and when your dear friends tell you to let go, you say it’s not possible because it’s not you holding on to the hate. (This is a lie, now that I admitted it, there’s no need to elaborate.)

The only good thing about going out is watching beautiful, charismatic men and imagining waking up beside them.

I’m very close to knocking on my new neighbour’s door and tell him that I need to fix his goddamn squeaking bathroom door with Johnson Johnson’s baby oil. But my dilemma is: I don’t want to introduce myself tonight. Apparently, it’s a boy, and I don’t feel l look good enough tonight to knock on any boy’s door to say “hello” or “I need to fix something in your room!”

Confidence, you bitch.

I’m on the verge of fighting this evolving OCD. I don’t think I can say I inherited it from my mum; it’s more that I’ve observed it for too many years. That’s why I won’t ever let anyone call me a mother, except in my short stories, where a so-called Laurie is the actual me as a mother.

Is it paranoia or low confidence? Why does it matter? Who cares? What’s so fun about knowing my fears if I can’t know yours? I’m sick of explaining, and my constant attempt to motivate you and push you seems to lead me towards a dead end. I don’t even know where the hell you have taken me.

Where is my fairy tutor of life when I need him?

I don’t think there’s anything worth preserving about humanity – except music and fiction. The future species should learn nothing about us, except untrue stories based on truth, perfection, love, passion and hatred. And they won’t know whether what they read is based on real life. They will think Sister Carrie was a hardworking woman, Dorian a narcissist, and Arkham Asylum was a real institution for the crazy. But there are many different Batman stories suggesting an ambivalent background, and they won’t know which one is true.

Don’t we feel the same? I think life has always been like this – nothing but lies, false beliefs and (the only optimistic) existentialism. Existentialism makes us ask fewer questions about what we don’t know. The important thing is you. It’s all about you and having control over yourself.

I’m trying hard not to slip. Taking triple caution is not life but paranoia at its finest. If I fall, I shall fall bravely…

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