I’m exhausted but somehow I feel a larger exhaustion creeping over me. Despite everything that was said before dinner I was immediately catatonic afterwards. A kind of catatonic. I don’t feel like I have total control over myself and I am unclear what changes I have to make in order to feel like I have more control. What changes I have to make or what changes I should make.
I did not speak up for myself. I felt like a villain but I am not one.
I am writhing under surfaces. As I walk I imagine being pulverized by the air.
I went to a café and saw a friend there unexpectedly. It was like a message from God. I worked without thinking for several hours while sitting across from my friend. I marked papers and wrote in my journal. When I walked home I felt better about myself. Like I was more able to take on a challenge. But still I don’t know if that challenge is a thing that is necessary. If it’s necessary for that particular challenge to be faced.
There are different kinds of challenges. Different degrees of challenge. I guess that’s what I need to find out. In order to better myself. I am always rushing.
I made something vague into an ideal. A night that I liked or that I didn’t want to end. A night that was not planned and could not have been. And yesterday I did that again. It feels good to look over the ideal and reading it over reminds me of the feelings that I had or did not have or struggled not to have or to have.
Writers deal in the ideal because words are dead. We pretend they are living but they are dead. And thus the living become infused with the dead…
Some part of me realizes I have given up. A refusal. My body. The strain. On what (or how) I’ve given up exactly is what remains to be seen.