واقعا اضطراب داشت بیچارهام میکرد. به خیر گذشت. البته خیر که نمیدانیم چیست. حالا غولهای بزرگتری در مسیر هستند. شکست خوردن از غول سپید دردناکتر خواهد بود یا شکست خوردن از دیوبچهها؟
There is not much more to say. I feel scared, lost, alone, and above all that, I am heavily bleeding. Life is really not fair. It has been too long in my favour that has finally spoiled me. Of course, I do not intend to deny my agency in deciding to be weak and keep nagging. I hope I can revive myself, my semi-wise, almost confident self, in time.
***
three days
Defeated I, fighting for a lost cause
Depleted I, dying for the wrong cause.
At this rate, I might lose all hope.
***
four days
As it turns out, I block feelings out, for real. Like it's not that I'm not stressed out right now, I've just learnt so well to supress emotions that I don't feel the anxiety anymore. The emotions finally find a way out of course, but in a form and shape unrecognizable, even for me. Well, that's the point, actually. They should be unrecognizable for me particularly. I mean that's how a defence system works, right? And rationalizing is seriously a defensive act of human subconscious, which is what I'm doing right now.
I just noticed that I'm going back to a spoken style of writing. I don't like that. Must begin practicing.
***
five days
I am old, Gandalf. I don't look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. Why, I feel all thin, sort of streched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can't be right.
***
six days
He told me that I sounded like Homer in Iliad. I should've pointed out his mistake; it was Tolkien.
It's too late now, not much to do but wait.
If only he'd come back, I said. If only I could make it, I say.
***
seven days
Incompetent in every attempt, that’s the kind of person I am. Imagine how incompetent I’d be, writing alien words. Still, feelings push out and realise themselves into such shapes. Who am I to deny them their right to exist? Pitiful? I feel unreal anyhow. It’s been a while now, that I have became conscious of it, of the fact that I’ve always felt emasculated. Why? For I have lost something precious that I do not remember how to call anymore. The loss made me vacuous. Lost in space, in empty space, and hollowed. Thus, I am emptiness inside emptiness. All my senses are dumb, all muscles numb, as though I never existed discretely. And I was never separately intended, never original. always an attachment, yet aimless, thus incomplete. As what you doodle without any plan and leave there in the blank page, here I am. For I don’t wander but I am lost. No need for emancipation, you are not bearing any responsibility. I am not completely lost; I know I am close. I just do not seem to remember which door.
***
eight days
Looked at in a different light, this bright and hardworking person is too fragile, too twisted to be a welcoming future for our children. Life is not fair: some children enjoy more wealth; therefore, they receive more education, and they have a healthier life. Hence, adolescents who are forced to believe that their sole hard work is responsible for what they have achieved so far, have nowhere to go but godforsaken land of self-blaming. The poor child grows into being a yet poor adult, unable to see that the well-off start the race from a starting point closer to the end. The poor are structurally behind, but if they believe that the key to triumph is seldom outside them, they will never know what has thwarted their will, and thus, end up blaming the victim -themselves.
***
nine days