Another favourite season has gone, and I still haven’t made it back to my beloved Edinburgh, where I fell in love back in 2003.
The autumn colours were beautiful, and the smell of maple satisfied my cerebral surface. It was a sense of melancholy that had produced tears of joy.
Instead of spending the money on a getaway, I decided to join the gym and booked a flight back home. I find it more important to visit my family rather than a well-deserved holiday in solitude.
I need to find a different place behind a closed door for solitude, and I should be fine. But I won’t tolerate any noises other than my own and perhaps that of a boiler. In a town like this, it’s complicated. You would imagine I’m better off in a cabin somewhere in the mountains. Maybe–but ghosts would haunt me. My head would release too many sounds and misconceived images (no, not schizophrenia).
How inspiring they might sometimes be, I couldn’t handle the overkill. The overkill of anything would drive me off the edge and what’s left of my own sanity would go away. Again, I’m not schizophrenic.
Perhaps I need some mercy. Mercy, yes. The word randomly shot through my head, and it makes perfect sense, but in a non-biblical way.
Some people can’t forgive themselves and are unkind to themselves. Can you still save them from insanity?
This morning was my first time jogging through the cemetery. Pretty much all gravestones were moss-covered, the paths were hilly and uneven, but all those names still have meaning. While thinking about that, I felt a tingle in my stomach. All those names were begging to be revived, but I don’t remember any of their names.
Someone insulted me by saying I was the female equivalent of Schopenhauer. Why would they say that? Besides, I’m no fan of poodles; they’re clingy. Scarily enough, the night after, I dreamed about petting an abandoned white poodle. Poodles are so weird, anxious, and full of themselves.
If I say I can’t give the required motherly love to a baby, this also applies to dogs, your most loyal friends.
Strangely enough, looking after someone seems to mean the world to many people, as if they had no other purposes unless parenthood is a purpose. I feel sorry for those, but at the same time, I admire them.
At least they know how to function and interact with creatures of the same kind. Some resent you for not feeling the same way; the kind that doesn’t understand that a feeling is never mutual, not forever anyway. (Look at your oxytocin levels.)
We may smell the same, but the ingredient of our sweat is of a different origin. People never will understand.
27, and still can’t use a basic tin opener; I get confused about whether I’m a right- or left-handed person. Nothing confuses me more than that. This morning, I couldn’t have beans on toast because I ran out of Heinz beans. You know they have a ring pull system that other brands don’t have! So why would I buy non-Heinz beans? I was so screwed this morning. I was too embarrassed to ask my landlady for help – you know me, I don’t ask for help – I haven’t got to that point yet where I’m shameful enough to do so. And again, I’m telling you this. That’s because, for me, you don’t exist. Not many things do.
But decent tin openers exist, and I will buy one today.
I think to get the person I really want; I need to work harder, not for his sake, but for my own. Maybe I will get to the point where I tell him, “I no longer want you.” Then I will look at his perplexed face as he calls me a pitiful liar.
There’s nothing worse than lying for the sake of pride.
Every day we inevitably do things that we hate. And hate signifies that we are prisoners of our own emotions – the feeling of being trapped and doing things that we don’t want to do, but our duties are clear. You may call it discipline, OCD or whatever, but it doesn’t change the fact that the concept of freedom is wishful thinking, imagination striving for escapism. You wonder, what if we could?
It has never been different. But there’s hope.
Once you have arrived at your desired place, there will always be something missing.
Going back to Schopenhauer, I don’t like him as much as I like Cioran, who expresses a lot more anger and determination and truth. At the same time, Schopenhauer was just hateful and resentful of those around him, particularly his mother.
I just realised that all my favourite philosophers never believed that life was about something more. To them, it is all about staying alive and feeding our boredom.
Please note that all these words I write I don’t talk about. If we meet, please kindly keep this shit to yourself because I don’t discuss things. I couldn’t discuss things with anyone.
What if we could? Then you must be the character that I’ve been waiting for all my life. I want you naked on my sheet of paper…so bad…
