Sun salutations

Time is a knife. It splits the past and the present. Today at 11AM I concluded school-uniform-life with a 10 page script, the best I've had so far this month. Ode to November! It's end is nearing, though it came at the start so joltingly loud but it's quietening down to a subtle fade. It's been the most bizarre November of my life — unexplained tears, countless cups of coffee, the many unproductive days and worrying thereafter. In retrospect I never reference time to seasons unlike most of the world because I've been living in a location where season is monotonous in its own way, in a bad way, it makes time seem homogenous and mundane in a sense.

 

I am trying to be consciously aware of what I am feeling today post 11AM but it is hard when there is nothing to feel for. Nothing. The notion of nothing. The motif of nothing. A recurring concept that strikes at random intervals throughout the day. My sadness is not a cut for you to bandage or a bruise for you to kiss. All these thoughts meandering through my brain with a sinuosity index rocketing through the skies, eroding the banks of my mind/heart with deposition of burdens I cannot explain. What I feel is mostly indifference I think. Googling things like "significance of pineapples" which was sparked by a photo of a pair of American Apparel sunflower patterned shorts. I don't think I care about anything enough to take a stand. Being largely aware that my lack of conviction in any matter is accounted for by a kind of numbing pain, something I no longer feel for when I finally decided to put the concept of 'feeling' to death. I am indefinite, I haven't found a conclusion.

Of the many things I don't wish to think about would include the ridiculous twists my back muscles are getting into. It is painful even just to sit up in a chair. It is painful to lie in bed. It is painful even when I stand for too long. The pain always seems to be fresh and new every time but in retrospect it is also the same kind of pain that I end up recognising and familiarising myself with. I’m going to be so used to this. So used to this. Dear you will get used to this.

I don't know why I'm writing this, there is no one left to read. These words will sink to the depths of the ocean, down to the blackest parts, and there they will lie and wait for me to join them.

Fear is a ton worse than sadness even when sadness is the fear that you being alive is wrong.

I like having these quiet/inherently incomprehensive conversations with myself.