journals of susan sontag; endless exploration of her mind as a writer and a human being. I am wasting my time by gaining knowledge from writers who are dead. it takes a special kind of unstable mind to take pleasure in reading dead people’s mail. (because they are dead, not because of they wrote.) letters of ted hughes and sylvia plath and such. but apparently I am not the only person who wants that kind of love. fifteen days of silence. my mind wandered around, I got caught up in nonsense. sleepless nights, watching the shadows on white walls of my room. two, three, four, five in the morning. like clockwork, at least two times a month, I don’t sleep at all. it disturbs the levelness of my life but there’s nothing I can do about it. I am exhausted and bored. running into people all over the city used to fascinate me; now I am lacking personal space everywhere I go. I saw you with a guy the other night, is that your boyfriend? people are infinitely shallow. other days it feels like I don’t ever leave the streets of south hollywood. I despise summer yet I am not looking forward to its end. what is a good reason to live?
existential crisis. as a writer, as a lover, as a human being. I am losing touch with my inner whatever. I am returning to intellectualism. reading textbooks and memorizing the latin names of human bones. there’s two hundred and six of them. I brushed the dust off my chinese books. it’s been entire months since the last time I opened them. panic attack. I don’t want to completely forget what I’d already learned. emotional eating, constant coffee. I am terrible at keeping in touch with people and every time I remember there is a feeling of immense guilt, and it doesn’t leave for hours. every morning I open the first page of the unbearable lightness of being and read the first paragraph. after months of doing that I don’t even read the words anymore. the idea of eternal return is a mysterious one. I like the scent of the book after so many years of page turning. I am split, confused, restless. longing for simplicity and lazy saturday mornings. to be independent versus to be free. what’s the difference? I laughed at the question but the truth is I couldn’t exactly pinpoint it. I know there is some. I am trying to focus on future but something inside me simply prevents me from looking in that direction. one day a time.
simplicity. home cooked meals and watching childhood cartoons in the mornings. was I actually happier as a child? I used to think that three months was a long time, but the days are simply disappearing before me. you are a daydreamer, aren’t you? perhaps. dreaming of an escape route. anything, anywhere. the road is home. four hundred and eighty eight words. empty words.