This is so Modernist

Maybe my green tea is not hot enough, or I’ve been trying too hard. I don’t know what I’m doing.

If you’re in the middle of a crowded environment and watch how cheery and miserable people juxtaposed against each other, you wonder where you stand. You refuse to stand anywhere and keep moving until all of them have receded into a tolerable distance. But today, they were everywhere. Why they all have to remind me about the time of the year, I don’t know.

And then I noticed I wasn’t breathing. My attention span dropped. My brain refused to utter a word through my mouth.

This is when you realise you long for some solitary pastime involving a creative and self-expressive process; either that or you need to get laid. I guess we all need a reminder that we are still there and not–

I’ve once again become a lousy listener. I’ve never been a good one. I’d slept through history classes, physics and chemistry.

In this environment, my ears only absorb so much that I only hear a drone in my ears.

If I have no interest, my sense of focus becomes non-existent. Nothing you say will be of any importance.

At work, I hear so many whispers with a tone suggesting resentment, dissatisfaction and endless bitching. These whispers and the sound of London, in general, manifested themselves in my dreams last night. Imagined noises must have woke me three times during the night, along with numerous hypnic jerks.

Are you a fan of stories that start in the spring and end in autumn? I think a story’s process should always adjust to the seasons.

Whenever I realise that even music can’t translate my current mental state and access my heart, I know there is something wrong, and there is nothing that I can do about it.

Sleep it off. Run it off. It’s not easy.

For the first time since late August, I feel weak again, powerless against the concept of endurance. There’s this uncertainty of whether or not my actions are of any significance. I question the country’s mental state, my stability, my debts to people I care about.

This is so Modernist.

What else do I have to do to prove that I’m a bad person?

Have I ever told you that I once went to an independent cinema, where they were showing the trailer of a drama about a man with Down syndrome who was in love? I caught myself laughing. He said something along the line, “I may be stupid, but I can love.”

But listen, I thought I was incapable of loving. And the idea of someone who can’t comprehend emotions entirely made me think I was mentally disabled, too. I was laughing at the two of us, but I know this is no justification.

Things have been weird since I moved house. At the landlady’s, despite the noise and frequent family gatherings, I felt a soothing brightness; still, I was annoyed and felt claustrophobic, but again, there was a light.

And in my new place, there is a warm darkness. I felt a heat in my room, which, I’m sure, will be hellish once it’s summer. And when the landlord suggested that we could cook something on Christmas Day, I knew it wasn’t right, especially if sensing some form of inappropriate intentions, which are possibly harmless at the base.

If I say I need space, I need it to the fullest.

I remember the best Christmas and New Year’s that I’ve ever had. It was in High Wycombe in 2006. I was all by myself in the house on Garratts Way. I read four books in less than a week. I never had an opportunity like that again.

I hope you lot enjoyed the dreadful video blog, which I only watched once and never will again, the same with all the other ones. The next one will probably be a letter, a very resentful letter. However, it won’t be as resentful as Kafka’s letter to his father. Or maybe yes.

When I left my note on Kafka’s grave in Prague, I recalled the dream I had about him. Both of us were in danger, but he only cared about saving his own arse. I resented him for that. When you realise that someone’s not loyal and faithful enough, you automatically create a shield you call self-reliance. It’s not necessarily a sign of not trusting people.

However, after a long time, self-reliance might hinder you from asking others for help, even if it’s only a little favour. You think they won’t do it, so why ask? You think you are never of priority to anyone, except to your mum.

And this is why she’s the most important person in my life. But I’m too much of a coward to tell her.

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