What is going on? I don't know. I don't pretend to get this for a second, for a millisecond. I'm just moving, just floating, just buzzing along. If you take off my blinkers, I'll see the space I'm hurtling through and I'll implode from fear. So don't. I've been trying not to see too much, it hurts more than one can think.

I spilt sticky beverages all over my notes and library books. I dried them fanned out on the floor in the library basement. People haven't noticed at all.

In one month, I've totally changed my attitude to where my future lies. In the last three months, I killed an old love and started a new one. In four months, I've experienced more heartbreak and psychotic love-fluctuation than I ever thought possible. In one year, I've been more depressed than in the previous 20 of a very depressed life, but it's been for the best and I've broken cycles of negative thinking - or have started to - that might mean that in the next 20 years I can do all the growing up and all the learning I missed out on before.

Killing the comfort zone by inches is proving more painful than I could ever have thought. But I should have before I started, might have been stronger.

I'm writing an essay on the constraint of the female possessed. I'm writing another about contextualisation, and the role of international context in rehabilitating extreme Irish sectarianist politics. And my thesis is about people reaching out to ideas across oceans, trying to make sense of sounds, hairstyles and velvet trousers, none of which they feel they understand, and all of which they feel make them lose themselves as their young face the new. Why does my academic life parallel the brighter aspects of my inner monologue? And the creativity I pretend I don't have in me, just to keep going, gets left with the darkness?

It just doesn't make sense, no more than the fact that my keyboard is sticky with the asexual residue of saccharine, milky earl grey tea.

I need to get out of the library and remember what the sky looks like.


xxx

I finished two thesis chapters in two days. While throwing tantrums the whole time about how I can't work. While they were the culmination of over a year of solid work, and still need plenty more revision, still makes me wonder what I could do if I ever shut the fuck up for twenty seconds and stopped bitching.

And so, things keep turning. Life is swiftly becoming anything but what I thought, but for the better. Infinitely so. I just need to get through this last wringing-out and somehow stay together.

Overwhelmed by everything to the point that being asked what kind of tea I wanted last night was a debilitating question.

I had French Earl Grey, but then two sips in, I wished I'd had Russian Caravan instead. But I had to drink the rest of the cup anyway.

I woke up at 6am this morning. It's a Sunday. It feels both sacred and profane. I am hungover from exhaustion and unable to sleep as much as I am unable to work. It's ugly but exquisite.

I was hit on by a gorgeous goth chap on the train the other day. Made me realise that maybe despite the tweedy embellishments, I'm still identifiable at least as a rabid existentialist, if not a bride of Satan. I have nostalgic fondness for a goth youth that is untenable now. The black lace penchant liveth on, though.

Please indulge me....

Feedback

The above gentleman has become far more shy and retiring around here than his brilliance should permit. I read this a while ago elsewhere. I'm glad he's sharing it here too.

Read it for my sake! There'll be a quiz afterwards. And prizes. Possibly cake. (I can't back that up.)

Still being lax on here, sorry. I do care, promise. If I don't reply, send me another message with expletives and I will... I just roll like that. Working stupidly hard, my body keeps protesting by getting sick, and I keep having to bitchslap it into line. Getting better at relaxing though, I think. I hope. Reading lots of poetry and drinking lots of herbal tea. I have no time for most everything, which has created a lovely equilibrium. Despite business, I think I can tentatively describe things as "ok"... we'll see how that goes.

All well. Getting there slowly. Cultivating tunnel vision to avoid the daydream trap I keep falling into. Listening to a lot of Paul Simon in the cold weather, which makes me colder, so I have to put on Astrud Gilberto and warm up, neo-sophisticated 60s style. Buring musk and opium incense so much that my hair smells of it. Drinking too much, probably, which for me is drinking half of what others my age drink. Losing weight, which is lovely. Family still imploding, thesis still largely unwritten, and in total I have another 21,000 words to write in twelve and a half weeks. Hmmm.

[Will comment back when I can spare more wordcount, I promise, I'm not that evil really. ]

Edit: Oh yeah. I am having way too much fun doing exotic dancing. I'd seriously really consider performing if the opportunity came up (well, ok, private performances, I still have some shame )... it's probably the most fun I've ever had, and it really makes me feel very good about myself. My flexibility is stacks better and I'm losing weight and I'm enjoying music a lot more too (like I thought that was possible anyway!) Lapdancing starts in a few weeks, can't wait.