Goodbye.

And so it is-

It's getting bad again.

Things to remember

Brush your teeth with warm water when it's cold outside, it will make you feel less empty
(at least for a few minutes)

Try to go outside at least once a day, even if it's the last thing you'd want to do.

Empty is not good. Empty is not good. Empty is not good.

Stop expecting so much from others. Expect more from yourself.

Things are not as horrible as 4 a.m. makes them seem. You are not as bad as midnight makes you believe.

The dull ache in your chest will go away. Or you'll stop noticing it. Either way, it gets better at some point.


...maybe.

((New) Beginning) Rinalda's Adventures in Bucharest

1. After four days of loitering in my aunt's house, I finally moved into what will be my residence for the following year. It's nice but the dog is menstruating so there's blood on the porch.
2. It's been raining incessantly for three days now. If it won't stop, I'll have to start building an ark around me. Or at least learn how to swim. (Both options are equally unapproachable.)
3. My right hand is cold. So is my nose.
4. I feel lonely.
5. And hungry.
6. I skipped the opening ceremony because of adverse weather conditions.
7. The armchair I'm currently sitting on is worth more than my laptop.

Stream of Unconsciousness

I am unhappy again. And it's better when I'm not happy. Everything moves in all the right ways in my brain, for once I'm not a static thought repeating itself until the walls of my head are scribbled with the same line over and over again like the blackboards from old classrooms. I will not lie again, I will not lie again, I will not lie again, All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, All play and no work makes Jane useless and unfuckingsatisfied with her pathetic life. 
Is it really that pathetic though? What is so cringe worthy that you can't deal with anymore? What are the monsters under your bed and why do you love them so? Is it because the nightmares are more tangible and less likely to forget? Is it that the good things are becoming so far apart that the hiatus between the moments in which you are happy without thinking or doubting it are a wasteland of forgotten thoughts? What if you could write all of that down? What if someone could hear that little voice in my head loud and clear until the things eating away at my core would worm themselves through the eardrums of the listeners until they all understood? Could they take it?
Everyone is a rotten apple in this fucked up garden of Eden, and we all have bad things worming their way in and out of us, like as many bad fucks on a prostitute's cross-out calendar. Crossing out the days until you don't really care about your birthday anymore - or about weekends, or about holidays, Monday Tuesday Wednesday become words that hold no meaning, empty carcasses of what they used to signify, why wake up and why go to work and why in God's name waste away your Thursdays Fridays that blend into one long workday just to get to the Saturday and Sunday of your miserable week that soon becomes a miserable month and sooner than you can say 9 to 5 you have a full year of Mondays and no way out.
Brave? Who has the time to be brave anymore? It's all go go go, run, if you don't run you won't keep up, if you fall then crawl, anything just keep moving. Never stop, why stop, there's no reason to stop, hurl yourself towards the grave, free-fall from the clouds that once held your dreams until your face is planted in the cold Earth that holds nothing but more worms for that rotten apple that you have become. Gravity took you and physics decided you were too old to believe in anything higher than yourself so you fell from that tree, covered in layers of knowledge that only made you heavier and sadder and you were hurled to the ground like so many others before and after you. You are not a seed, worthy of planting. You are a rotten apple and the garden is ugly and there's graffiti on the inside of my skull.
Sad is better than numb. Sad is better than nothing.


You have a gift though, oh God you have a gift but that gift only works when you don't and you're afraid you'll either lose it or lose yourself in the process. And if that's the case, which one would you choose?

All the bad memories are coming. There's no distraction to stop them. I'm scared.

Things to do on a rainy afternoon

1. Pretend you're one of the Aristocats kittens in a basket on the river bank. I used to feel safe and cozy whenever I thought of myself as a kitten in a basket out in the rain.
2. Stuff yourself with comfort food and watch a nice show while cuddled up in your blanket.
3. Read a book while listening to the metallic pitter-patter on the windowsill.
4. Be happy that your crops will grow faster and better this year, sacrifice to the gods of rain and thunder and wash your face with the blood of your enemies.

My Dissertation

Or how I can't seem to focus enough to actually write more than a paragraph about something I really like. Because who does things when they're supposed to? Not me, no sir. The theme I'm working with is dystopias. I just really like dystopian books, so why not write about something cool, right? Well, it's way harder than I originally thought. I don't have the necessary will to sit down and do something analytical as opposed to something purely creative.

The yield for tonight: 1 paragraph
Cups of coffee: 1 (so far)
Toothache: persisting

The paragraph is about Cloud Atlas.

Motto: “Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies…”

And stories cross genres like in no other work before it. Cloud Atlas is baffling and chilling in its implications, ambitious to the extreme in its language and, ultimately, a meta-novel of the highest form. Six intertwining stories told in six different styles weave a tale about what links us all together  in a truly detective style, in which the reader gradually discovers the key to the biggest mystery of all: what happened to Civilization as we knew it? From the language of a 19^th century epistolary novel to the slurs of forgotten words in the post-apocalyptic future of ‘after the Fall’, Cloud Atlas promises and delivers a journey of the best kind: a journey through language and stories. Forward and backward we are taken through time, backtracking and completing the circle drawn by David Mitchell with precise and masterful artistry.