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I went through the folders of my PC and decided to read one of the very few diary entries I still have and found this one:

"Now I am sitting here and I am not even angry at my pitiable condition that I don't know what to write. Merely an indisposition feels free to nestle up in me and will probably join me the next few days. In fact, I should be full of emotions, formally overloaded with information about me, but the only thing that's sure is that I feel sick. Everything else wouldn't be referring to me right now. It's simply trivial. My chair squeals, my wallpaper needs a new coat of paint and my room needs to be tidied up. All of that is easy to solve, so it has nothing in common with me.
It's just my fatuity which is harassing me. I am so horribly out of spontaneity, indecisive, I am feeling everything but zest for action and I would do best sleeping the whole day through. What would I miss? The fact that other people are happier, further in life, thinner, smarter, more disciplined and beautiful? No, I don't need that; I am living a good life without me. I cry for others, I laugh for others and I live for nobody. A whole new way of independence.
Someone could try to shake me up, but I'd be too lazy to open my eyes. I probably wouldn't even notice because I am hardly ever there."

I wrote this at the beginning of September last year and I must say I'm a bit shocked and embarrassed. I know that I love to bathe in self pity, but Oh My God What The Hell? It was quite a hard time, and really I don't miss one single part of my teenager past but I truly forgot how self destroying I was at that time. What can I say, I'm awake, I have a new chair and I am definitely a part of this world.


02:31 + 06.07.05

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