The sun doesn’t go down till after 11 p.m. I’ve been lying awake pretty much all night, but it has nothing to do with the brightness. It’s more the failure of reconnection with my head.
Nothing I do seems to give me a sense of pride or self-accomplishment — like failure is written all over my face or something. And I scratch my scalp so hard that I bleed and lose more hair. I feel like a dog licking himself to death.
The key problem being no escapism for the mind. A physical holiday is nothing if the mind is not on holiday mode as well.
I’m not sure if a holiday is what I really need or a long-term meditation treatment.
Too often, I find myself overly aware of reality and its events, except that the sight of it doesn’t make me feel a thing, and I begin to wonder how I can change it. Or, in other terms, rewrite it, so it all suits me and makes sense to me. It’s probably one of the most selfish things that I can do, and I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to find ways to make myself feel less guilty about it but talking freely about it by admitting it doesn’t really do the job.
I have no heart for reality; it’s like living death with legs.
My mind’s job is to make things beautiful — like you read fiction to make things beautiful, as nothing else is. Beauty exists only in your imagination.
I’m trying to prove myself wrong by visiting places, taking pictures of places, but nothing is ever mine. It’s all in my head and how I perceive things.
The mountains aren’t mine, the desert mouse isn’t mine, and neither is the food on my plate.
It makes me wonder whether I need to go all Thoreau to feel a sense of freedom. Do I have to make my own cheese before I can say it’s mine? Cos spending money on having things done for you means nothing. Absolutely nothing.
This state of comfort is not healthy.
The contents of my thoughts are odd when I’m alone, in a positive way. It’s when I’m aware that I’m the one behind the wheel and no one else. I find myself a lot more in order and charge of things, as I have space and time to get rid of the dirt that I’d swept under the carpet. There is at least an attempt to focus.
All these questions to which there are only imaginary answers — more beautiful answers because facts are never facts…
The sun went down a long time ago. It’s no longer bright, and I think my head is slowly connecting.
