Nighttime crises.

July 31, 2016 § Leave a comment


ain’t nothin but a tired cow, yawnin all the time

Ever get that feeling, when you’re trying fitfully to fall asleep, that your closed eyes are merely wide open, lidless eyes looking up into darkness? I’m getting that right now. It’s somewhat disturbing, I decided to give in to my body’s evident desire to keep me painfully awake. As I look at the screen, it’s kind of shifty, blurry-like. Maybe that’s a sign I need to go to sleep. Ha! Called your bluff, body. I know you won’t let me. Wanker. I know you’re a wanker ’cause I’ve seen it myself. Another thing you like to do without asking my opinion first. Well, I’m pushing it a little. You know I’d never stop you from doing that. Except maybe that time I really didn’t feel like it, I was reading that awful article, you know? About American politics and how frightfully clownish it’s all gotten? And you just had to go and… anyway. Let me bloody sleep already.

And I feel I should do something productive, like finally get around to writing an outline of a story or something, only I feel that would only wake me more and intensify my budding headache on top of it all. So I suppose I should go on with this “stream-of-consciousness” nonsense, excuse for a writing style, and maybe lull myself to sleep that-a-way.

Go on, body, you know you need it, you need it bad. Well, not bad, per se, I’m not like, sleep-deprived or anything. Just well, I will be if you don’t hurry up and let me go, ’cause mother’s gonna wake me up early tomorrow. And you know we don’t like that, neither of us. Particularly me. You’re just a sloppy mess, and I have to put up with it. So don’t, just, don’t, okay? Christ!

Hm. God, you know what’s really embarrassing and absolutely sinful about my inner self? I am so angsty about literally every single last one of my old friends doing some fancy master’s degree after brilliantly finishing their fancy bachelor’s degree, back in the fancy old town where I grew up. I suppose I’m pretty brilliant as it is, but couldn’t at least one of them go off the rails a little like me? Can’t they make me feel like my decision of “doing a crappy little music degree and then moving on to NOT study further and just live some sort of life” was not such a terrible one? They are all so sorted, you know. So… employable. I can’t see myself in any sort of high-paying job, none. I have no skills to offer the high-paying. Except, of course, my body, she said with a tinkling laugh and eyelash flutter. But god no, I suppose it’s too easy, and also too shame-upon-the-family-name-ish.

Families. Don’t get me started about families. In fact, I won’t start. Really, my family’s pretty all right. Like, I’m pretty god damn blessed. God damn it, I’m so god damn blessed, I could so have had a cushy masters degree in my old cushy town in its cushy country with its cushy free higher education. And here I am with my blessedness running down the side, kind of glooping off into a puddle on the table and then leaking, just one long gushy drop of blessedness, leaking off the side of the table onto the floor. Just beginning to stain the floor, only a small section of it, but it’s a slow and terrible process which I’ve been in the process of beginning ever since I decided to do that stupid art school foundation year and then that even stupider music school diploma year, and then that stupid degree which I should have known would be stupid.

Look on the bright side, though, I’ve met some awesome people and been through some awesomely exciting stuff, at least compared to my old town life. Ehh… even that’s not convincing me so much. All my most deeply-rooted nostalgic memories are of that old life, growing up. Though I know the mind is so tragically deceitful, and I know when I move on somewhere else, I’ll have those same nostalgic thoughts about my life right now… and I’ll only ever be happy in retrospect. Curses.

…Only ever happy in retrospect. Good theme for a song (NOT a theme song), or name, or something. Or a bo–

No. I have not one idea for a good plot. I can only ever write what pops into my muddled brain, or whatever someone tells me to write about, provided the necessary materials. (Any newspaper peeps hiring? Nudge nudge!)

Anyway, here we go, pip-pip, off with me, the coyka* is calling.

*my personal little russky addition to the Nadsat dictionary, meaning bed


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