Today I am ill enough not to muster the energy to go visiting relatives, so I have been left behind. It is a glorious crisp and bright autumn day and the first time in probably a couple of years that I’ve had so much time to myself. All to myself. For some reason I feel like crying. Imagine all the words I could write – think of them running through my fingers like sand. 

I eat biscuits that are too sweet. I sit in the flat and look out at the beautiful day, the beach and the trees. So much time is spent not doing the things we love.

Earlier I spend some time in a shit shop, under fluorescent lights, being pounded by music, feeling ill and inhaling the plastic smell off of everything. I do not look the way I wish I looked. My life is not the life I wished I lived. The world always meets me wrong. The day is wasting. I looked in a bookshop for books about writing, how to write, what to write, what to do.

I spend so much time waiting. I am waiting for things that never come.

This is neither good nor bad. There is no need to write or to avoid writing. There is no need to go out and greet the sunshine, to be covered in gold light. There is no need to hide in the dark. There is no need to follow your dreams or anything else, to believe in opinions, to listen to anyone, to do what you should. There is no need to buy anything else or to save money. There is no escape. 

I sit in the flat and wait for myself to leave.

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