Whiling away the hours at Tate

I feel like a tramp in rags, 20 years older. That’s probably because I haven’t slept properly for days. I’ve been hallucinating a little bit too.

I see so much skin. Everything’s much too close.

My headache is stretching my sense of perception beyond clarity. Sitting in the midst of the Munch exhibition makes me want to go to Norway straight away.

There is no time for rest. There never was.

That’s what I tell my body all the time, and now it seems to be revolting against me by tightening the muscles in my limbs.

But special people will make you stop for a while and rest anyway. And you’re surprised you’re suddenly more at ease.

I’m staring at the portrait named “Ashes,” illustrating a woman in the woods. She’s touching her head in despair with both hands, as though having done something unforgivable. On the left is a man in black hiding away his head, weeping and regretting his actions.

Am I doing something wrong, or am I going to do something wrong?

I’m too tired to think and too tired to care. All I know is that I am not a victim.

And for now, that’s all I need to know. Other than that, I’m as empty as a shell, but you can’t crack it? Why not?

Why not…

I want to set my brain free; I don’t care about the heart.

Many feelings are absent anyway, which has its good and bad sides. The bad is that I’m watching certain beauty crumble away, and I don’t seem to care too much, not like I used to.

I believe I still feel the same way, but not on the same level.

At present, I miss no one, and yet, I want everyone.

And I will have them.

‘Cos by the time they want me, I don’t want them.

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