Eight days

The last eight days went by fast, yet I realised one thing–I’ve not written a word. I’ve lost the vibe for a chapter and also noticed how I’ve been acting off in the last eight days. I haven’t spent a day on my own; instead, I’ve been pretending what I’m not. I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing, showing the ambition to succeed in business, creating a new side of me that would make the real me look dumb.

Maybe I’m trying to escape into multiple characters, but I’m not. I love and hate myself too much, and the balance is always perfect.

My decision to live for my family and work my arse off has come with a crisis. If I want to pay off my debts, I’ll have to change my attitude. I thought I had already adopted a new attitude, but I realised that I was in self-denial. There are so many people in this city trying to fuck me over.

It makes me want to lie to everyone. I’m getting tired of telling anyone the truth. They don’t deserve it.

Looking after my family is my next task, and I’ll have to abandon more than half of my precious time to make that happen.

I’m not sure whether the adoption of positive thinking has caused these incredibly ecstatic moments in the last eight days. Maybe that brainwash really got me; it had made me happy and ambitious for a while, just not for a real purpose. Anyway, my positivity has gone. It had felt strange anyway, but at least I’ve been hopeful in the last eight days. I actually believed that I could get somewhere…anywhere.

Don’t get me wrong; I believe in hard work. Saturday children are hard workers.

I told my mum about the second interview at a travel agency; they haven’t got back to me yet. She said, “You probably didn’t get it, then…”
That was it, pretty much.

I froze inside, and my hopes were gone.

As if she believed that she and dad would always have to look after me until I die or something.

What if my parents really think that way?

I’m not sure how much they actually believe in me, to be honest. They don’t even know me except for my volcanic anger.
I’m confused.

I want to be alone.

Why are people so fucking clingy and want to be my best friend? I don’t want to be your best friend. I want you to count on me because you can count on me. That’s all I want, and it’s fair. You know me, I play fair, I always do, but you don’t.

I want to be alone.

Alone and do all the stupid things that I do when alone. I’m tired of you pointing at my mistakes. Don’t you understand that the only reason why I repeat those mistakes is to piss you off?
You worry about me.

That’s nice and sweet. But it makes me feel like a little kid incapable of looking after herself.

Me – the most reliable person you’ll ever meet. Mentally more independent than you. I think twice as far ahead as you.

Or maybe I have become an impulsive liar. I’ve met so many of that kind in the last few years that I realised my written exposure is the only truth left, the only truth that I can hold on to, but what’s in it for you?

I no longer fear employers reading this. They are supposed to judge my abilities and not who I am.

Why should I be scared to admit that A Short History of Decay has become my bible? And believing that the reason I’m alive is that I think Sisyphus is doing the right thing?

How much I love Buk, he said that you need several days of doing nothing, just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, and doing nothing. With my OCD and discipline, I can’t do that. Every day has a task, and I NEED to fulfil it. I need to work.

If you say you are bored, it’s because you’re boring as fuck; you don’t know who you are and why you are here. You have no purpose.

You don’t even have to make up your own task…there is ALWAYS something you NEED to do right now, even if it’s saving a snail from the pathway.

How bad has my English become? I haven’t been reading for weeks…I haven’t been writing for eight days.

I wouldn’t have survived those eight days without green tea; it has saved my life, kept me focussed and eased my anxiety and nervousness. I’ve been looking at London straight in the eye in the last eight days.

And London, you are fucking ugly, but you have charisma. Unfortunately, you use it for evil purposes.

Before I leave, I’ll have to teach you a fucking lesson, you son of a bitch.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.