Ok I don't know what's wrong with me, but I was trying to put into a sentence on the street, what the problem is. I'm tired of having little direction, not believing in something, and being alone. About that. I'm tired, but about that. I was trying on unflattering trousers in Liberty when I realised again it was due to a lack of fun for the last ten days. I haven't seen anyone, haven't done anything, bar sulk at lindy hop after a 5.30 start, and be mildly insulted by a friend I trusted to believe. I didn't feel so bad about the wet not-even-vegan cake.
I am sad. Sadness or melancholy. I'm tired of excitement relying on the contents of my inbox, no euphemism intended. By the sound of tall lanky non-cupid Eno binging. Dinging. Friend. Foe. Lover. Artsadmin. Christ. Jesus isn't emailing me btw. What I commenced as a bit of fun has actually poured water over a theory of hope. I am becoming more hopeless. More pathetic. I wonder if path-os is related to path-etic. More resolved, sadly, in the hopelessness.
I'm tired of wasting energy on this. I should be an amazing vacuum worker, unconnected, ideas sparking, newness evolving, people and ideas just sticking to me like magnets or thistles. My momentum, bringing things along with it. But it's not. I spent my two days off this week, up until the afternoon, just spinning out again. So infinitely boring. Pointless. I don't do it all the time now, thank goodness, but the light I carry is so small and delicate, it can't take these knocks. It goes into a bucket of sand, dead.
I got so melancholic at Camden arts centre. Why am I thinking about the Anni Albers book, why am I so wan over Sol LeWitt? Urgh, rumbles, old rumbles of reminder. I expected to see him. I was bike spotting today, and two customer double takes. Sickness and tingly arms. They're back! OK. It's probably just hormonal, and it's good to see the truth, I just have to notice this grief passively I feel. Don't judge it, just notice it, and be my own secret foreman.
Today was actually ok at work. I drank a lot of coffee. I made good drinks and gave good chat. I overted the glances of my likes, kicking inside. I checked a wholly uninspiring message and deleted the webpage history. I did bike spotting and felt shit and suddenly there were couples everywhere. The man at Oxford Circus made me cry. The gig was too loud. I watched two likes, watched them watching me and while, and watched them touch up their girlfriends. A drunk man in Mangal got angry at me. I changed buses. I cried on the street. Here we are.