I have officially lost interest—another three weeks.
Last week was ‘Snap out of it’ and this week, ‘Get a grip.’ Who knew life was that hard?
I wonder how non-Saturday children feel. Does life crush upon their heads just as hard? I wonder how much it hurts them and whether that injury leaves scratch marks. There are certain days when I want to have absolute control over life, so I can knock everyone unconscious.
I haven’t felt mentally exhausted in a long time. If life were merely an apple, I’d devour it right here and now, but what I have on the plate is a frozen readymade meal made with no love. I couldn’t even heat it with love. So why would I want to consume it?
I knew it the moment I woke up this morning – it’s the day Buk died. Today, seventeen years ago, he was lying there marvelling at that beautiful crack of light, and I bet he died with a smile, and his last thought was “Rot in hell, suckers,” hence the words on his tombstone “Don’t try.”
Buk is a suitcase full of survival guides. They come with no instructions – you know how they work the moment you pick them up.
I have no idea how far I have to travel, so I can be the way I really am. Somewhere where I don’t have to pretend that I care.
And stop pretending that I don’t care about how well people operate the machinery of language.
Do you want to know why I don’t speak much? Why don’t I give much feedback on your work? It’s because my mind gets opaque. It’s opaque whenever I have to open my mouth. I’m sure I was different five, six years ago. I remember being impulsive and chatty; therefore, I don’t know what happened to that person I once used to be.
On the other hand, I have many more perceptive people around me who are more insightful and influential than those I knew from my previous university. The only thing I notice is that I used to feel a lot more at ease and laidback with people back then, whereas now I feel claustrophobic and somewhat under pressure.
The other day I smoked two long cigarettes in a row and noticed how they had dried my skin. I looked three years older. But the Pall Mall tasted good. It’s not a good sign when I say how nice a fag tastes.
It is a shame I can’t do anything terrible in the next few days because of my blood test on Monday.
I’m after a particular feeling. I’m relentlessly searching for something/someone to spark a feeling that makes me want to pursue the possible path of self-expression just so that I no longer feel alone and empty.
If I ever do get that feeling, it never lasts long enough for me to develop it. Then I lose focus, usually because I get nothing back.
Maybe it’s because nothing is happening on the sexual plane. I don’t know.
It’s only just now that I’ve discovered the advantages of lying to those whom you know will not understand you anyway. When Buk talks about being an actor during readings, I can see how it works for him, how he suddenly becomes the joker that he isn’t. Like he gives a fuck.
This kind of acting is what I’m learning, and I’m quite close to succeeding, but most of the time, I remain quiet because I find it easiest. As mentioned, I can’t express myself anyway. Writers who write as they speak scare the shit out of me. I feel intimidated – how dare they…
Maybe that feeling isn’t that strong, and I shall no longer pursue something that’s not meant for me.