The Child that books built

I’m still losing a handful of hair. It makes me no longer want to run my fingers through it. Priorin is taking too long to take effect; it’s also supposed to regulate my hormones, but I feel no different.

The first line of “The Travelers” goes I think I’m happy on a green autumn day. Maybe if I live my days according to beautiful lyrics, my heart will change. My unfinished poem to autumn might as well be binned and forgotten, not to mention my letters addressed to the “I” in five years. I don’t have enough faith in my recent writing to create sufficient motivation. Driven by a sense of embarrassment and shame makes me want to stop writing entirely and do something else instead. But can I create some new skills from nothing?

Minor keys are brushing along the surfaces of my brain, and Dexter’s lack of monologue towards the end of the last episode soothed me somewhat… Maybe one single look is all you need. Here’s a crucial reminder that you are there. But it’s never enough unless you have sufficient people that reflect you as a person and make you feel like one as well. That used to scare the shit out of me.

Reflection. It’s fine as long as they help justify who you are, but if they identify a trait of which you weren’t yet aware, then you might as well surrender and become their disciple. But the student years are over.

When Francis asked me what I wanted, it had taken me over six months to figure it out, but only to realise that I don’t want it at all. Once I have it, then what? It’s what she wants, not me.

I wonder whether I should send him the promised postcard or whether he is already in the States promoting his book. But I did promise to send him one from Vancouver.

I hate how I keep my promise for everyone except me, but I did promise myself to keep things beautiful, collect more beautiful memories, which means composure and knowing my own limits if there are any. We shall see.

When I read The Child that Books Built, I was mesmerized by Francis’s honesty and language. And I want to be just like that. I guess my long-term weakness resulted from an excess of Wilde, Dostoevsky, Kafka, and Houellebecq. I have an in-depth focus on self-identification with all the flawed characters that remained in the abyss with no intention of gazing at the stars.

But I’ve always had hope…(and fantasies about screwing the writers in my head…)

I just never bothered taking enough action to make things better.

At least I refuse to stagnate. I have a bit of a plan now, although not a perfect one, but reloading my dreams keeps me going.

You are supposed to learn from these fictional characters, be one step ahead of them, always see things coming before they do, no matter if you are the reader or the writer.

If I went for a coffee with Wilde, Dostoevsky, Kafka and Houellebecq, I’d be in the claws of a hedonist, a lost soul, a coward and a pessimist. Instead of a tea break, it would be a trial about life and death. How could I refrain from falling in love with all four of them? They bring me so much challenge. So fascinatingly ugly and yet so hot! Despite wanting to be a saint, I’m not strong enough yet to be anyone’s saviour and might even need one myself.

And these imaginary guys at the coffee table know because we’re all in the same boat.

I want to be the first to disembark.

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