If we live only to delay the end and distract ourselves from the end, it will make sense to pretend that there is no end.
And yet, some people can’t wait for the end; they even speed up time to get there.
The only reason I’m in a hurry is that I’m not sure how much time is left. One hour is like thirty minutes and five minutes, like two. Living in this city doesn’t slow things down.
Last week I dreamed that I could run up mountains, but now I find myself climbing with dry hands and broken fingernails. This is why I wake up tired; I’ve been climbing all night.
This also explains my leg cramp last night, which felt like a rat squeezing itself through a tight hole. Who knew that flexing your knees and pointing your toes downwards isn’t good for your legs’ blood flow? It’s a normal sleeping position.
My poor calf muscle–how ironic that these painful moments most frequently occur when you’re resting, when you believe that you’re at peace. Now suddenly, I’m thinking about John Hughes’s death. Dreadful things can happen when you take a relaxing afternoon walk.
Other than that, my landlady decided to call someone to repair her shower at midnight. This is how out of order she is. And she knows I go to bed between 9-9:30 p.m. So, I’m not ok with it, yet I didn’t say anything.
I know I’m an old girl who hates her life. And if my body hates me, I hate it back, but I still care for it.
Also, I can’t believe that it’s time again to ask my landlady to top up my metre. I have 50 pence worth of electricity left in my room, and I know she will say it’s enough for another day.
I’ve met up with my future landlord a couple of times to sort out the tenancy agreement and deposit receipt. Now that everything’s done, he’s acting weirder, and I no longer feel that he’s a quiet guy. I was hoping this landlord-tenant-relationship would remain discreet. One doesn’t have to be friends with everyone. I’m getting tired of this game.
In one of John Martin’s paintings, a man struggles to climb a mountain with jagged cliffs everywhere. I forgot the name, but he’s searching for the waters of oblivion.
You must have done something terrible if you seek to forget. But Martin has made this mission his life. He was ready to go through hell so that he could forget. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry about it. However, I admire his strong will, which reminds me of Sisyphus.
No matter if good or bad, as long as you have something important to accomplish, nothing else matters.
If art and photography are about capturing the moment, is writing about finding sustenance in words?
There is a lot of art out there, and living with art means making it your own. The originality lies within you and how you plan to post-modernise it.
See what Johnny Cash did with Trent Reznor’s song? If you want to make something your own, you apply the idea to your own life. Why worry about what’s been done and said? I want to know how you can retell that story. Nothing is ever the same.
Without my novel, I feel naked and useless; I don’t know what to do with myself. Every day I wake up to go to work like there was nothing more to life. However, I must take a break from the novel.
But I’m dying to read the comments on my thesis, and I wish dear Maria would hurry and send them to me. This will be the last piece of feedback that I will receive from F., and I need it!
Someone, please massage my calf.
Can we delay the end together…by massaging each other?