1. Go on an adventure - take the ferry to one of those islands
2. Take polaroid portraits of all the important people (I never dare lest they should realise how important they are)
3. Have a seafood feast
4. Bake pretty cakes
5. Practise the piano (pure agony)
IT’S OKAY I’M STILL ALIVE
I’ve been scared for so long that I’ve become numb — it is a numbed state of mingled fear and anxiety. Results come tomorrow. Dear Lord. It certainly doesn’t help that I had a bad dream about it last night — curiously, I was, too, in this state of numbness in my dream. Now that I am awake, I guess subconsciously I try to make myself believe that I am in a dream. It does work, not much different to the way a film feels less scary when you cover your ears, or when you take off your 3D glasses (or your prescribed glasses, even).
Results come out this week. Thursday. Feels as though I am constantly caffeinated (though I have been abstaining from any form of stimulant, including chocolate).
hardly write anymore. guess that means I’ve been happy, if it really is sadness that makes me write. no - I haven’t exactly been unhappy, more like unfeeling. my head is a haze, a wilted flower. I perk up a little now and then — a rainbow, discounted sashimi, a rare breeze in this stagnant summer.
hurt my tailbone. it’s a pain to bend, sit down and stand up again. need to get started on my essay on immortality - really, what on earth was I thinking? probably nothing.
Have forgotten what a gentle heartbeat felt like, having lived underwater for so long, sans oxygen tank — found it too heavy. How still and clear everything must be above the surface.
Lately it has been so foggy I can hardly see the hills from the balcony. I have been finding comfort in an extra large green tea latte, the first tentative gulps, then I feel sick three-quarters through, but isn’t this so very typical of my experiences — cosy feelings become cloying, sooner or later, and I retreat into indifference.
I wonder if I am ever going to make it.
Everyone is ahead, kicking up dirt as they quicken their pace — I choke, limping behind in the whirlwind of dust.
and things have become to mean less - sitting sipping my cup of coffee with a permanent scowl and an imaginary pipe and walking stick with an eagle’s head in gold and a foxskin cape and Venetian mask - all is mist and perhaps a faint whiff of a decadent continental breakfast - runny fried eggs smoky sausages white chocolate croissants and all - reading Tolstoy feeling superior: I scorn you, you meaningless life