I was listening to one of my favourite Depeche Mode songs a few minutes before midnight. “Never let me down again.”
I was also cleaning my mouth with a sip of absinthe. Yes, the initial idea was to swallow it, but I choked it back up, washed my mouth and spat it out. Well, I wouldn’t have done it if I had had my Desperados to celebrate.
I wonder how old do alcoholics have to be till they realise that sorrow can swim? And that oblivion exists only in space? We can’t escape anything on earth. And I like it that way.
I love watching people that run away because it makes me feel better about myself. It’s the only time I’m too lazy to run away. I’d rather look at it and have it done with. It might even give me something to write home about. But many people view it way too dramatically. The numbness has nothing to offer me, like in the last two months; I was numb as though on anesthesia. After that short story, I had nothing to write about.
Last night I read Wilde’s short story “The fisherman and his soul.” There is nothing worse than abandoning oneself.
During the attempted meditation session, I got carried away. You are supposed to empty your head and focus on your breathing, but lately, my head’s been filling itself with shit leaving my stomach to digest. It’s not an easy thing to digest.
When I arrived, I weighed 47kg. I don’t remember the last time I weighed below 50kg. By the time I leave home, I will be bloated and heavy, however, not in a good way.
Also, I have trouble breathing and lack privacy, which is one of the main reasons I long to be alone again.
This year, I hope to meet someone who leaves his teabag in his cup because nothing ever gets too bitter.
This year I must be faithful to myself. There are no excuses.