The digit sum of midnight

I don’t resent the person for making me feel this way, although I’m finding it hard to breathe today. I thought my bra was pressing too hard, so I took it off – I still couldn’t breathe in deeply. So I opened the window and meditated for ten minutes – better. I don’t like how the tweeting birds outside always remind me of springtime, for which I’m not ready. Then I put Finch on.

If I could fuck Time in the arse with his sickle, I would. I mean, no offense, Cronos, I still love you and your planet. I wear you on my back and always will. If this is what you have in store for all the Saturday children, then fair enough, I will not interfere, but I hate you right this very moment. 1+4=5

The truth is my imagination is weak, not as good as other people’s, and this is why I like reading stuff that goes over the top to see if I can imagine it. Example by Ryu Murakami’s In the Miso Soup:

“Frank pointed at # 5’s throat and looked at me. You could see her vocal cords vibrating as she screamed. Signalling with his eyes as if to say, “Ready? Watch this,” he sliced deeply into the vibrating flesh, and the scream dissolved in a loud shoosh, like escaping steam.” 3+3+2+9=8

If you write about a person who has just gotten out of bed and takes a shower, I won’t be unable to imagine it. Neither will I able to imagine a young boy on a football field, running, kicking. Why? Because I can’t be bothered. However, I admire people who can imagine simple images like these. How do they manage to create these characters without painting dark clouds over them? Why are they so free compared to my characters? My characters feel so numb; they can’t even cry, and neither can I anymore. I haven’t felt like this since 1st January. You know when the energy escapes your body, leaving the blood cold, freezing on the inside? This is when you reluctantly welcome apathy. And behind apathy’s back, you attempt to recycle old, thrown away pieces of emotions that you believe you still know so well. 1+0=1

All my life, I’ve tried to be an ordinary, feminine woman and ended up building E. a high fence, separating her from the rest of the women. And no one has noticed in the first chapters. Maybe a couple. I’m surprised how a fellow student told me she found it hard to maintain an unreliable narrator. If you know the worst of you, you’ll be able to do anything you want; you can deceive anyone you want. You mustn’t care. But if you are a caring person by nature and enjoy caring for others, then I’m afraid you haven’t dug deep enough. On the other hand, I wouldn’t advise anyone to do that. At some point, you won’t be able to breathe if you’re too far down the ground, driven by obsession. A truth that might not even exist. 1+4+6+2 = 4

Why would anyone say they envy me when the truth is: I envy them? Because only fools are really alive. I envy them so much. 5+7+4=7

I don’t want to go outside. I don’t want to watch pigeons pick on a piece of a left-over chicken wing. I don’t want to go outside and look at people’s puke from last night’s party. Why is England so uncontrollably drunk? Where in the world do I find people who do not drink to have fun? I’m tired of keeping my word all the time. And pretend that I care. I’m tired of this. 1+2+3 =6

My obsession with numerology isn’t as extreme as a mathematician’s. I have the habit of adding up all the numbers until one-digit forms. So, guess how crazy I go inside when I see digital clocks or on the treadmill. It has become an obsessive compulsion.

When my digital alarm strikes midnight, I always wonder: What are you?

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