I don't know what it is about wakefulness lately, but it is truly uninvigorating. I mean, I want to be excited to be awake, to have some sort of purpose. Lately, it's been going to bed again. Exhaustion plays a part in this, but so does the fact that anything that happens everyday is boring.
That sounds so disappointing. I don't mean that in a rude way, like the people I spend time with are boring or anything, it's just that no adventures happen, nothing exciting happens. Just the same everyday things. Ordinary. What is an ordinary day if the only excitement that happens is your fingers falling asleep?
I have nothing to write about because I've had no time for me in the past three weeks. I have no time for me until next weekend this week, so there won't be any soul-earching wikipedia rampages searching through humanist and buddhist and meditative mindsets for me. Only short poems in a poetry notebook that I have. I need a new notebook. My favourite notebooks in the bookstore were gone after Christmas, and I was half-expecting one for Christmas anyway but I should have just bought one. I need one that isn't shit, that has character, and will be filled.
I write in notebooks with pens. Which is counter-intuitive since I can't read over my work then, but in a way that makes it easier for me to write. Even as I write this, I have the computer far away from me and small type so that I can't erase what I've said because I can't read what I'm typing. These are my thoughts falling down through my nerves to my fingers, and past my consciousness after hitting the keys, hitting the impermeable constant that is the internet.
I want to start reading the East End plays, I think that the Factory theatre intrigues me just because it the rivalling the Terragon, and for some reason I have a strange love for Terragon, probably because it is named after a spice.
Crazilly enough, I wish that I could readn things that I actually enjoy all day everyday, and could just actually read with my eyes. There is more frustration in my life than the limitations of my disability, but for the love of jessu why is it so hard for me to read an actual book? I feel like I've lost intimacy altogether.
Intimacy is on the level of reading in my mind, to hold something and to connect with it in such a way that you respond emotionally.
I don't want to write about this anymore, how uninspiring. I'm an empty muse for article blog writing that are internally composed lately, so, I guess this is sort of a bust. Maybe I should take up some sort of thematic bullshit. I've always hated those blogs that start with "So I was looking through adverts today.." or some other bland shit that you see the beginning one hundred forty characters on twitter.
I'm beginning to think I'm sort of a non-believer in anything anymore. People ar e turning out to be a fifty-fifty-flip of kindness nowadays, but I guess that was never a change. Maybe I'm just sick of two-faced people who certainly do not make their own luck.
And please, for the love of pete, somebody get that batman reference.
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