The low girl and lacrimation

A friend said my love life bore a high resemblance to everything Shakespeare – unrequited love due for a miracle. When I hear Shakespeare, I don’t think about love; I think of death, madness, vengeance–the whole aspects of a tragedy. This is probably because I only have two favourites: Hamlet – my prince, my well-controlled man of madness and Macbeth – a play in which women in power are evil.

I read my daily rat horoscope for fun. When reading something positive, I always hope for the best, whereas all negative predictions are bullshit. Deep inside, my fear constitutes a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Beware pointless and devastating jealousy.” I never used to be jealous. But this is another of those unbearable things that he had inflicted on me.

I was ready to go to the shop to get more fresh vegetables. On my way, I popped in at the accommodation office to report faulty in our kitchen and my bathroom. My extractor fan doesn’t work ever since I moved in.

The shelves in the fridges have collapsed, just like the bridge of balance inside my defective core. That was the plan for today – report these faults to get them fixed finally.

The minute I was ready to leave, an email had eliminated all my productivity. I’m not quite sure who I’m doing this for anymore.

My worst fear has come true. I have reached the peak of hopelessness. I can’t feel my limbs.

There’s only little that I want and too much that I don’t want. You can’t call that picky or fussy because I work hard for the little things. People say you should be happy with what you’ve got – who says I’m not happy? I am happy. The problem is that I’m bored, which causes a lack of motivation. How does an absurdist define boredom? If that’s not nihilistic, then I don’t know what it is. Or this may be the prolonged punishment for my previous life as an arsehole of a man. But I’m sure all those women deserved it in one way or the other.

I see my problem, and it won’t be solved until the novel’s completed. That’ll be the day for me to move on and say fuck you.

The boulder is exceptionally heavy today, even though it’s the same one I’ve been rolling for years.

All of a sudden, the Londoner sirens and the foxes’ cries seem very far away. That’s because I’ve wrapped myself up in plastic. Filtered noise is less frightening. If only there were a healthy way of filtering emotions as well.

If only I were runaway android Pris. But no, I’m flesh and blood, heart and brain, wrapped in plastic, still as human as before. Gradually I feel tired, dizzy and all I hear is the irregularity of my breathing. And before falling asleep, I empty my heart and mind.

There isn’t enough liquid gathering in the lacrimal lake; therefore, not much has entered the sac, and I only squeeze two drops of tears out of my eyes. No more will come. Only two. Two bitter ones. To clean and lubricate my eyes. Only to clean and lubricate my eyes.

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