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“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

--T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

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The Awesome Power of Procrastination

*Trigger Warning: self-harm The power of procrastination is so awesome that even though I have been without Internet access for several hours and I have things that I think I want to do, I have spent that time lying on top of my bed thinking about how I would do all the things I want to do if I were to do them. Very productive. I think that the ideas I have are worth so much more in my head, I can fetishize every negative feeling and pretend that it makes me special or interesting in some way. But when the thoughts become words that I type out and read back, I realise how banal everything about me is. That's probably the real reason writing blog posts and writing in my journal gets a little harder every time. Here is a quick list of the things I should be doing right now: On Tuesday I had a very intense dream that was terrifying enough to make me feel slightly separate from my body all week. Even now, everything feels a little unreal and abnormal; I haven't stopped
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The Hole

If I could still feel anything, I'd be mildly disappointed right now(or very disappointed, it's hard to tell).

What a life.
What a time.
What I felt. Then. Gone
- Ali Smith(Hotel World)

I'm losing track of the days(and time, in general). It's starting to feel like nothing exists but me and the big lead of indifference in my head. The other day I started wondering what would be left of me if the anger and the resentment were gone, how much of what used to be me is even left and whether it even matters (there is something about being in "The Hole" that makes me so self-centred). My body doesn't feel like my own, all the things that happened to me feel like they happened to someone else, someone I don't care about or like.
My Afrikaans teacher always used to say that it was the shadows that give a picture depth and make it interesting. But I feel like I'm all shadows, that there isn't actually a picture there. I don't feel like a person, just a pit where the bile and hatred (I have so carefully collected over the course of my life) just fester. And anyone who he even comes close to it, gets infected.

I know everything would get better if I just chose to survive To focus on the positive things. To know all the pain end eventually. And to really believe that even on my loneliest nights, someone does care if I live or die(even if it isn't someone close to me). I know all these things, I just don't care. I get how survival works, I understand it, but I don't want it.

I used to be quite self-conscious about my scars, about the marks I'd made on the visible part of my forearm. But I recently learned that no one cares . No one cares. No one ever asks about them. I don't have to hide my pain because even if I scream at the top of my lungs, no one will so much as bat an eyelid. I don't matter, no one does.

On the upside: At least I don't feel so self-conscious about the amount of wine I buy anymore. If the people close to me don't care, why should the clerk?

"If no one is going to pay attention to you anyway, then you're much better off being sick."
- Mari Akasaka(Vibrator)




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