I can’t take the swine flu thing seriously, and that’s mostly because of what it’s called. I mean, I’m sitting here actively trying to think of a dumber name for a disease than “swine flu;” I’ve got nothing.
Judging from the Internet panic, this virus is going to wipe out the human race, and I’ll be honest here: I’m enough of a miserable little sociopath that I can’t say I would have a problem with that. If we’re all gonna die, then hey, great. Count me in. I just think it’s a shame the apocalypse had to come in the form of something called “swine flu.”
I had forgotten just how great it can be to take a walk in the rain without an umbrella; there’s something so calming and cleansing about it.
Yeah, that’s a pretty fucking prosaic observation, but hell, it’s true. And I’ve got another test tomorrow. I don’t have time for insight.
The library’s fourth floor is the designated “quiet floor.” That’s where I am now, and it really is quiet here. My keystrokes sound like gunfire. They probably sound like gunfire to everyone else here, too.
No one’s saying anything, but there’s an almost-palpable passive-aggressive tension in the air. And I’m feeding into it. I’m amplifying it.
I’m barely able to admit to myself that one of the reasons I’m sitting here banging away at this keyboard is because my subconscious thinks it’s some sort of dumb revenge on the guy sitting at the table behind me.
That guy’s been eating a bag of chips for the past thirty minutes. Every crackle, every crunch, every rustle made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
And I fucking hate myself for reacting this way. It’s hypocritical and a little insane. It’s not like I’m particularly quiet myself. The guy’s just being a human. People eat.
Another guy’s sitting two tables in front of me. He’s a lot quieter than I am, and yet he’s annoying the hell out of me too, and all he’s doing is turning the page of a textbook every so often. My annoyance at something like that is my problem, not his. I’m a dick. I don’t know why I’m so hypersensitive.
This floor is basically one giant room. Every sound carries. Every whisper might as well be a scream. It seems like the tiniest sounds get distorted into brain-breaking thunderclaps. I can’t deal with this place right now.
I don’t have much direct control over my mood. I can only observe it; I can only watch as external forces push it this way and that. I know where I want it to go next, but it never goes there.
It’s as though my life is an awful movie. The script is boring, the direction is awkward, and the actor playing me has no idea what he’s doing. He can’t act for shit.
I watch him and I’m filled with a rage and frustration that I have no healthy way of releasing. I want to shout at the screen, but all I do is clench and unclench my fists like a crazy person.
Every few scenes, though, I reach a breaking point. I’m just too annoyed. I have to say something. I turn to the person in the seat next to me, and I scoff.
“This guy is unbelievable,” I tell her. “Even I could do a much better job than this dumbass.”
And then I realize: oh yeah, the seat next to me is empty.
The hell with this, I think. I’m leaving. I get up and walk briskly and decisively to one of the exits in the back, but it’s sealed off. I try the other three; they’re sealed off too. I’m alone in this theater. It’s just me and the screen, baby. I get the vague feeling that this isn’t the first time I’ve made this discovery.
I go back to my seat. I sit down. I forget I’m alone, until I remember again.
I’m making a little headway; there’s still so much inertia I have to push through.
It’s not that the words are drying up. That would imply that they were at one point wet. No, these words I’m typing were bone-dry when they appeared in my brain and they still are.
I got a little bit done yesterday. I got a little more done today. I’m making progress, sure, but it’s slight. I’m not plunging forward the way I should be. I still don’t want to move and I still feel like there’s a layer of Saran wrap around my head.
Everything happens so slowly. I’m not functional enough. Minutes go by without me noticing. What should be straightforward physical tasks seem like, and are, strenuous, time-consuming ordeals.
I need a lubricant. I need a way to take the friction away from my life, to drop it down to zero.
If only I could get rid of my body’s confines. I’d turn into some kind of air spirit and ride the wind. I’d go anywhere, anytime, without ever getting tired.
I think I’m moving again. Not sure.
I used to take long walks when I needed space to think. When I got a car, the long walks stopped, and long drives took their place. I don’t want to know how many hundreds of dollars’ worth of gasoline I’ve burned away for the sake of aimless introspection. I shouldn’t have even bothered buying all that gas; I should have just set actual dollar bills on fire. It would have accomplished the same thing: nothing.
I’m always making up excuses in my head. I’m always giving myself bullshit reasons to wallow. Go out for a drive, I’ll tell myself. It’ll do you good. It’ll help you clear your mind. It never helps me clear my mind. It just wastes time.
I go out there and drive and I’m not even paying much attention to the road. I’m paying just enough attention that I don’t accidentally kill anyone, but the road might as well not be there as far as I’m concerned.
The only thing that seems to exist is my own self-absorbed and diseased brain. It churns and thrashes through the same useless, self-destructive, imprisoning thoughts. It traces and retraces the same patterns. It grinds and regrinds the past into ever-finer dust.
All I did today was drive; today disappeared. I don’t even know if I should try to get some work done now or if I should just take some melatonin and give in, and hope that I stop screwing around tomorrow.
T. S. Eliot felt that April was “the cruelest month,” and the motherfucker was right. My shit always seems to fall apart around this time of year. Maybe it’s because the weather’s so nice. The sun’s starting to give off some actual heat. Everything is alive and rich and colorful. I guess the world’s vibrancy highlights my dislocation from it.
Why is it such a struggle for me to do something as fucking simple as get out of bed in the morning?
Today was a waste. I got nothing done and I barely felt alive. I shuffled through the day like a shadow-zombie; everyone and everything around me seemed to be moving way too fast. I couldn’t keep up.
I’m wincing with every word I’m typing here; I know I’ve said all this before in various ways. This entry is a redundant permutation. My mind has become a redundant permutation. I’m paralyzed by my own thoughts. They’re always the same. They’re never positive.