London, slag

There is no cure for neurodermatitis. You can only control it. If you’re lucky, it’ll go away on its own through total relaxation like meditation, even happiness and other make-believe techniques.

After thirteen years of coping with this stressed-induced chronic disease, I would say I’ve been controlling it pretty well, although London’s water has deteriorated my aquagenic pruritus. Until I find a cure, I’ll continue taking cetirizine, hydrocortisone and urea cream.

When I was suffering from a dust mite allergy, I underwent three-year desensitization and received monthly injections at the dermatologist’s office. I don’t react to dust mite poop as bad anymore, but the allergy itself didn’t entirely go away.

Should I go through the same process again to get rid of my dander and pollen allergy? I really liked the injections, except that the sore swellings. I wonder whether they do the same for latex.

They say my allergies are thanks to not infecting myself enough with nature when I was a child. Yet I remember playing with my sister in our backyard all year round. I used to have countless dreams of playing behind our house. It was a magical place until my dad sold parts of the property to get some money in.

My sister and I would spend all cycling in the backyard, hiding under cherry trees and taunting ants.

I might have inherited hay fever from my mum, but no one else in the family is allergic to dust or latex. According to my latest allergy test, I’m also allergic to guinea pigs too.

I should have pursued a career as a dermatologist.

I read a brilliant book called Direct Red, which tells the story of a female junior surgeon. I got anxious because, on the emotional level, my novel is kind of similar except that my protagonist is twisted and lacks empathy. I just needed to gather scenes of surgeries, hospital lives and doctor & patient relationships. I’ve been spreading myself thin with secondary non-fiction reading. I want to return to fiction now, please.

Overall my protagonist is coping well for now, and so am I. After rewriting the entire opening, I feel that she and I are walking in a straight line now. For some reason, the parallels evoke some morbid images in my head. I assume they are reminders of what is yet to come.

After all, I felt confident and determined today. It could have been the olive green Thames, watching beautiful flats reminding me of my wish to buy my family a beautiful house by the sea.

I felt smitten.

Ah, Wong Kar Wai movies – his concept of unrequited love fascinates me each time!

In the movies, females cry genuinely, whereas men have their apartments flooded instead – just another way of shedding tears.

Internal monologues are to be heard, but whatever I say in my heart, the words fall on deaf ears.

A stupid infatuation occurs just once a year, and if I’m unlucky, it lasts for twelve months. And like Trent, I wonder about all the might-have- could-have-beens. In the end, you can only write a little tale about it and keep it to yourself. I express love in a soliloquy, and then it continues dwelling in the shadows of oblivion. It’s easier to cope that way. To keep it powerful, you want something you can never have.

I’m still not keen on Londoners; they take many things for granted.

But hey London, slag – we’re almost one.

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