existentialism vs. pragmatism and other fancy words

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.

avant qu’elle parte, quatre

new morning routines. early starts; I am usually awake by six o’clock. I pay attention to details, I slow my thoughts down. I get the coffee ready with less automatism, more devotion. it tastes better. a half an hour in the swimming pool. breathe in and out. I cleaned out my room, put all the books that I am currently in the middle of reading onto a single pile. a total of thirteen titles. I am determined to finish them by the end of this month. and then move onto other things. it’s time.

almost a month passed without me seeing the warm glow of his brown eyes but I didn’t care. we are not what we used to be, which has made our friendship easier. other things became important, other people. yet even after such a long time, he still bothered to translate the unknown words for me so I’d understand. you are like me, you know. he kept repeating the same over and over and I wondered whether he truly means what he says. because I know how easy it is to say words we don’t mean. I went back to my life the next day, thinking everything would eventually become clearer and I would not worry about every single detail. but I still do. I kept his words close. there was nothing else to be said.

wanderlust. I spoke to my other family in washington dc a couple of days ago. it filled me with nostalgia; with fear how fast time flies. the twins were barely three years old the last time I saw them. but now they are starting little school in the fall. I wonder how much I missed out on. how many mornings of fruit smoothies and nightly espressos with chocolate chip ice cream I could have had in between.

I miss that autumn too often.

from a journal; handwritten. a long time ago, yet not really.

we stayed out the whole night. late afternoon turned into evening; evening turned into midnight. followed by the usual club music of two and three am. but we got bored too easily. we sat in the park behind the seven eleven until four thirty. I remember needing to pee badly. he took me to a part of the square I’d never been in before. it was like a different planet; I imagined we were in the middle of the jungle, lost. except for the bank of china glowing above us. we played sexion d’assaut on repeat. it fascinates me the way he perfectly knows the lyrics to each song. for the time first time we were comfortable because we were finally honest with each other. he looked at me, realized and understood; he wasn’t angry. we stopped fighting three months ago; everything became easier. after five, the light started changing. slowly. it is always just a feeling first. sunrise filled the sky with blood red and deep shades of pink and orange. I had a camera with me but decided to remember with my eyes only. it started raining and I took my flip flops off. jumped in shallow puddles of water; I was soaked to my knees. my hair dripping wet in a couple of minutes. he brushed loose hair off my cheeks; put his ray bans on. lil wayne. I walked barefoot around the square with a tiny flower behind my ear, gazing up. everything was still and silent. then the sky cleared into sharp colors and cloudless emptiness. I heard the first train arrive underneath us. we slowly danced waltz; he fooled around pretending to be a ballerina. I dug up a bunch of coins from the bottom of my tote bag for a can of coffee; drank it while sitting cross-legged on the train station, water splashing on the floor from the bottom of my trousers. I thought of last summer; my head aching from the lack of sleep.

elephant juice versus elephant in the room.

and neither means anything.