Dreams

The past two days I've been thinking about dying. A lot. Like the literal lack of oxygen in the place has made me feel like I could be dying. Could my lack of enthusiasm for being, coupled with the physical environment, actually cause my heart to just, stop. I thought it could. Jolt, jolt myself into seeing I'm alive, I'm here, if I was to die now, now, is that, that, the last thing I'd have wanted to be, to feel to exist as.

Sad thing is, not even those thoughts were enough to breathe life into me. It's been fairly grim these past two days. I put it obviously down to my one-day weekend. Not into them, not used to them, and do not see the civility in them at all. I was glad she was in today, told her so. Like I need a fellow dissenter, someone who will just flatly tell the truth of the travesty and drop the act. I swore a lot today. I felt angry a lot. My dancing around others' hermeneutics was really really staid. I'm not dancing around you today, so yes why don't you just fuck off out the shop as I'm answering your question, YES THE BAKED GOODS DO HAVE DAIRY IS THAT HOW YOU'VE BEEN BROUGHT UP.

I met the most beautiful man at the lights. Well we didn't meet, you know, he was turning right. But we bike checked, those fine leather grips and a tidy red frame, some Toms and a Waitrose Foodhall. I looked behind me, ready to shout over if no other cyclists were to bare it's witness. There weren't any. Now's the time, he's turning right. Nice bike, I said, nice glasses he said, nice beard I said, only I didn't because I was tired and off and reeked of the day. He looked over again. Really. Fuck. The lights changed, he turned right. I tutted and shook my head, tears within the mile.

I'm frustrated because I sparked the other day. And now, the double life of having to close off those thoughts, temper them as they don't pay, coffee pays, thoughts don't pay, so ssshh. And my head says, no, no, er, no, stop thinking about these sparks for even minutes and they'll go again, disappear, these precious things. I want them to breathe but there's no oxygen, and I'm thinking I could die. Like them. On Friday, I had a few amazing exchanges on only 3 beers, the resonance of my twisted Theodore Zeldin quotation, the best conversations being where you say things you've never even thought before.

I can think, can I? You can understand me, can you? We are, conversing? We're talking about ideas and this bizarre space we are making, together, for these concepts is almost real. I'm thinking. I'm saying things I've never thought before. I'm talking to artists and this makes sense and I need it and I'm not jealous I'm equal? Next day on milk I decided I am going to try and get into art school. It just came over me. Not even like I'm going to try and want to get into art school, but, plainly, I think I just need it.

Life is ridiculous and anything can happen. What makes most sense, what makes you cry with life. Do that. Fuck the excuses and work backwards from the ultimatum. I completely know it's not going to be easy, if even possible, but if I have a drive towards something, they I need to try. I am willing to coolly look at it, without romanticism or awe, and plainly put in motion steps to get me there. To be around people who want to theorise about and make art. Strangely, since this realisation, I have started to have dreams. Or started to see my dreams. I shall ask her about the science of this, but think this not so concrete evidence is pretty amazing.