Dear diary,
I knew many years ago I used to address you like that because I didn’t know who I was talking to, and neither do I know now.
When I was a smitten teenager, I addressed boys in my diaries, boys that I never approached. It was my only way to be close to them. I mean, which white boy in school would ever like me?
My imagination used to be visually so strong that I wrote stories about having sex in a cabin underneath an avalanche to warm up. For some reason, I can see myself having to pay to get laid in the future. No matter what, coitus will remain meaningless in this life of reruns.
Live and learn; the only time I’ve learned anything is when I’ve lost…lost a big chunk of my morals leading to demoralisation. Though it’s no time to give up yet, and masochistically speaking, I love hitting the ground and then find a good reason to get back up.
Fuck this living will–fuck hope I sometimes say, but WHAT ELSE DO WE HAVE, WHAT ELSE CAN WE DO, Mr. Camus? The truth is, I can’t continue like this! EVERYTHING ENDS UP THE SAME! All these reruns and repetitions as though I’m paying for errors from a life of which I don’t even know…! Do I even understand the meaning of justice concerning karma? Fuck meaning, Albert. I can’t always create it myself; I need reassurance and consistency. I want to look in someone’s eyes and see what I’m doing reflected in them. But no one reflects me, and you say Sisyphus is a happy fella…? I don’t know. Very often, I feel sorry for him.
Do you remember how in my diaries, I was most aware of reality? Of course, who would ever forget my pathetic responses to it? Time to go insane, Philip K. Dick would say, as if I haven’t been insane already. So the more disconnected I become, the more insane the inner faculties will turn, and the more I need to release my anger and taint this beautiful white sea…!
Goddamn me.
Holy fuck, it sickens me to see how I have such a great deal of hope running through my veins and yet I visualise myself half-naked in a clean white bathtub holding the final decision in my hand.
Yes.
There are many bathtub incidents; think about The Rules Of Attraction (my favourite teen movie), Cloud Atlas, The Butterfly Effect. Give me more examples, but it doesn’t have to be as extreme as the one in Scarface. I’m more drawn to subtlety–a sort of quietude disrupted by a strong tone of colour. Like blood in snow, Hemingway would say, like blood in snow. This is how he described the lips of a geisha. But all I see is Frobisher in the bathtub.
(Ellen was touching herself in the bathtub.)
I fell in love with my side fringe again; not only does it make me look younger, but it hides my eyes. I never liked my hair, but I did when I was 21. This inevitable feeling of growing old, withering away, heightens the sense of regret. I try not to look back to the past and its mistakes.
And for the love of Christ, I don’t have the time for this. I will no longer look for that mutual feeling.
I want to curse hope, curse it for getting involved with the unknown behind my back to teach me a lesson. What happened to my own choices? Are they so deeply influenced by what means shit to me? This explains all those trivial memories. For instance, I remember Dan and I talking about the number five before he kissed me at St. Pauli station in 2009 on a Sunday or how you and I talked about The Name Of The Rose when we walked down the stairs in Embankment.
Although determinism doesn’t allow me to change certain things about who I am, I’m done blaming others. But I still believe that nothing is constant. Thus, there’s the danger that one falls out of love, falls out of place. This is it—a temporary chemical reaction with a numbing after-effect, too dead to cry. There’s not enough air in this stuffy prison I created in my head… and I want to stick my fist into the 21st century’s mind and smother its ideals. But it’s not worth it.
So, what if one day I come to terms with it and it won’t mean anything anymore? Hopefully, that day I will stay in bed, make myself comfortable and dwell in the world of endless sleep, make love to Morpheus and live the dream.
