Being thankful for good health, physically and mentally, which went missing for two weeks. Though it was an awful time, having gone through it made me appreciate a good day, a simple good day, food and good conversation, and being able to smile at people’s faces passing by. After much overthinking during this time that I might have all sorts of vitamin deficiencies, possible hormonal imbalance, maybe liver disease, borderline disorder, and many other things that I self-diagnosed, I did myself the favor of flooding my calendar with doctor appointments and checkups: general checkups, X-ray, MRI, therapies, and gynecologist. In good health, I returned, or let’s say I never departed, to my writings.
My plan is to get a haircut and to meet people from a new circle. I should let anything familiar go, but I keep wondering about aesthetics, and I don’t want to think about them for a while. Today I decided to minimize my wardrobe to only black and white so that I don’t need to obsess over what to wear. I’m somehow between excessive moving and doing and wanting, and I really want to shut myself down and be primitive again. I don’t want anyone to text me or look at me or talk to me. I just want to value the slow process of things, but I also have this perpetual yearning for excess. And then I think to myself: sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, but I only like the idea of it. The idea of temptation, giving in to temptation. But as soon as the pleasure leaves the contents of my body… I feel like people are always performing. I can’t quite tell how, but I can feel it, being part of it.
Yesterday was a Sunday when I totally landed on a shit floor and realized I may need to take a different route, a possible 360, in my novel. How far I went, giving meaning to my days with writing it. Where should I begin again now? I desire to come out of my hibernation and introduce myself to the world.
Cough, cough, cough. I may, after all, still be sick. 🤧