The week passes by so quickly. There’s almost no time to reflect and do anything but the increasing headaches you seem to have. 50 pages an hour, you seem to see yourself progressing. Not bad, not bad at all.
Lunch with Susan. She keeps telling us to come to France, see her place Lille, Paris, and that she would cook French food for us. I told her a learnt a french word last week, parapluie. Umbrella. Tres bien. Tres bien.
Coffee with A, again. We keep go on rounding on the same topics, circling each, revisit, see if anything’s changed. Old friends are like that. You never seem to get past moments long gone, and the record plays again and again endlessly. I tell her I want to do several things before I go back home; Climb the mountain at the back of the uni, go for that 26km coastal walk, go camping, cycle to Stanwell Park, go to the center of Australia, and so on and so forth. Money comes to mind. And money shall we find.
Some days I get sad I feel like I don’t want to do anything at all but laze around, stare at ceilings, drink coffee, watch people from my window. Everything is okay yet everything ceases to mean anything for a moment. Even conversations, bumping into familiar faces seems agonizing, and the hurdle of words words words seem to amount to nothing but just blabber. What was the point of it all, you seem to ask yourself?
Je ne sais pas.
Depression. So we lists symptoms of what we think is depression. Or are you just reading too much of Sylvia’s journals? Here a friend seems to want to cease living (I feel that at this moment I can die – the world is a prison – so she has the same notions of Ghazali), and there is another wanting to escape from it all (tumultuous turbulent, throes! i shan’t want to face anything anymore out of fear and anxiety!). Here one tries to find some passion in herself (shall I become content of just having a profession? how do i form my individuality, as a Muslim?) , and there another tries to throw herself into things things things, as many as she can, either as a form of distraction for herself or in order to feel something. We all become bored, in one way or another.
There isn’t an elegant way of putting everything into place, as I am no poet (nor a travelling one, Dish). Everything is a rough mess, and I return to my room feeling more disintegrated than before. This is Hemingway’s doing.
Passion, passion, passion.
perkaraperkara 