“I don’t even know what I was running for – I guess I just felt like it”.

August 3, 2010 § Leave a comment

I have been avoiding this for many many reasons. Nights in a row, in my not-so-crowded apartment which is now dominated by a loud and stinking cat, I have sat on the couch, my usual spot, stared at the screen that is either off or on showing old music videos and waited. I waited for the impossible to resist urge to get up from my seat, take my computer on my lap, where it belongs and type things away. But instead, I have occupied myself with other activities. I have read a heartbreaking story set in old times of a Turkish love affair (which is slightly different a book than what I want to write, but I must say that I was suprised at how many similarities I have picked out between the two). I spent hours and many beers on pieces of paper, cutting them, drawing on them, piecing them together with glue, writing silly notes on them.

All the while either listening to nonsense-the cat inside, the poeple outside, or the conversations in my head. If not the nonsense- I preferred listening to show tunes. Which is something I do when I am really really sad, though in the beginning listening to them would make me happy.

I spent hours in the theater staring at the screen having Christopher Nolan explain to me the thin line between reality and the fantasy while I was playing in my head over and over again the many incidents where Joseph Gordon Levitt and I run into each other in New York when he’s out for a run and I am sitting and reading a book and we go out for coffee and fall madly in love. When the film reaches its balck out and I am left questioning my own real world and whether if I am really living in it or not, I attend advanced yoga classes to strech out my legs just to feel alive. As I come home to give myself another couple of hours of pure inhuman sadness and misery caused by sad British pop songs and Simon & Garfunkel and again, Joseph Gordon Levitt’s beautiful soul, I realize am purposefully torturing myself for my own misery.

Everyone around me seems to find ONE good thing about their life, the least. They have a good apartment, a good fuck, a good job, a good hobby, good hair, good body, good fucking SOMETHING. And I take a peak at what the fuck is me, and I can say that I have absolutely nothing to be contenrt with. I think my job is another distraction to hide from the real world and continue my anonymous behaviour online, the best hobby I have (all this and a little more) I keep postponing to torture my undernourished soul, the best fuck I’ve had in months is only supplied by my showerhead (and it does get lonely in there) and I have destroyed and tortured my hair to such an extend that I look like an absolutely crazy person who is caught in between fame and embarrassement.

And to top it all off, I fought with my mother and have officially isolated myself from every possible human being I can contact.

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