I AM, back at college, back into a routine. I am still taking four subjects and am back into counting hours, off, watching the clock for a few minutes left, or slow, chopped off time. I am still sitting and standing in or on chairs in the blueroom, on people's laps and twisted around people, sleeping and reading newspapers, and victim to crawling creeping boredom.
And I am proud of the way I climbed over the chairs to escape, because to get too close is not a good idea, because you don't care about me at all, as long as I don't have to be reminded of it, it's okay. I am sleep-eyed, I sat with Holly today and all my words slurred, and I couldn't figure out why, and I only wished I could stop her being sad, but I don't know what to do.
I want to feel something, that's what, and as we discussed, find something, find someone. Mean something, write purposefully and record, all of this, because, because, time scares me. Because it is slipping away, how do we live it? I don't know. I record, because I can't figure out what it means, what to do, I live, but only half in this world, always in the moment but reeling from the past as well. Part syrupy spinning from the past, and syrupy dripping from the ceiling that doesn't exist, and a more vital and terrible imaginary world, that I very much prefer, and yet shaped and forced into existance by the mundane and, somehow, inaccessible things that happen here. I am not sad for this, only sad that there is no one else here, to see it. Right now, no, I am not sad. I am nothing, and today, singularly, I am not sad, I am nothing and it is blankly, oddly comforting. Trace everything that we live, and force it into rememberances, is that a good thing?


Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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