A day

Alright then. Let's talk, see where this goes.

My eyes fucking hurt.
Thought it was a lack of good sleep, but as I slept 2 hours this afternoon I'm thinking that really isn't it. More likely, it's just the glasses: I switched back to my old ones as the whorled ones give me headaches. They're clear, and when I put 'em on the first time I had the impression they're sharper than what I normally wear. But there's obviously some strain.
Is it alcohol? No; I only had a shot yesterday, and a shot today, after which in both occasions I decided to do other stuff. And besides, it's not as if alcohol's all that enjoyable when your eyes are burning constantly, so that's locked up for today.
That burning does feel like lack of sleep though. I woke up at 5, because of worry. I couldn't sleep anymore for a little while, and I don't know how long I was up. The sounds of birds, and worry.
The pain is also at least in part because of that cold that had the misfortune to come barging in during one of my worst periods in recent memory. I don't let up so there's no calm for it to go away. It saps my strength and makes me tired, and that's okay because it clots some of the negativity and appeases some self-destructive urges.
Though not all of them.
I've gone back to running again, only a few days as of yet, but the body gets more exercise all-over than if I'd just use the home-trainer. It grinds my throat and I almost welcome it. There's a part of me that is horrified at the stabbing in my chest, and a larger part that just welcomes it with fatalistic contentment. They've come a few times over the past months, mostly during times when I've gone way past the bounds of self-improvement and straight into the realm of punishment. Is it my lungs, is it my heart, or am I imagining things?
The running also makes me feel as if I am doing something, reaching out, even if it's only to god, or something. Something that might help me, and give me something I won't get if I just sit around the house all day. A miracle that'll turn my life around.

Went to town this morning. Guess anxiety about going out the door isn't that terrifying as waiting for the hammer to fall. You see, I've done something stupid, and I've acted childish, and now I'm both cheerful in a suspended state of waiting, cheerful because that's the best I can do because where what comes next isn't up to me, unless of course I bite the bullet, for bad or worse, and I genuinely don't know here, and reach out first.
I'm also living in a constant state of self-reproach, except, it's not that at all. I wouldn't take it back if I could. I do want to see where this goes. I tend to see the past and what I did as done is done. I dine well on my mistakes, I turn them over and over, imagining hurt and sup on it like it is all I could ever wish for. Except I don't wish for anything, nothing specific at least.
I've done something and I want to see what happens, see the train derail or miraculously right itself.
Jesus Christ; it's like I'm in love. I remember a time well on over 10 years ago where I felt the same anxiety and where I let situations play out the very same way. You poke the bear, kick over the hornet's nest, hurl insults and let the rage and pain boil over, and then just wait, and you stew.
Thing is though: I'm not in love. It's just... do I want something? I honestly don't know anymore, it's been a while since I felt clear-headed.
It's kind of horrifying though, to see there's been no growth, no change in how I do certain things. I'm blind to the reasons, or maybe I'm just fooling myself.

Derailing here too, I see.
Yes, I went to town, as I needed a 20 euro note for the import tax for when  Lankhmar book 2 arrives from Centipede Press in a week or a day, who knows, not that I'm actually looking forward to it anymore; it's become rote already, and there's no joy to be had, fall into the pattern, hear the familiar noise, see the expected sight. It'll be a pretty book though.
I also needed a new 20 euro phone as the one I use now, in lieu of my smartphone because I'm stubborn, has a massive crack in the screen, making it a little hard to see messages or even check the time. I didn't get one though, as I couldn't find one I wanted without asking for help from any of the attendants, and that obviously wasn't going to happen.
So I went home with only the note. There's no true sense of failure though, as I can't really bring myself to care.

Came in, stripped, and sat in the sun while reading Red Country, which is turning out to be quite acceptable misery-porn, though its quality isn't near the level of its predecessors yet, and I'm already 200 pages in. Abercrombie's style, lauded by one and all, is just okay to me, and here it is distinctly subpar in comparison to previous efforts. There's a few bright spots as we get to some violence, though it doesn't pack the expected punch, and though the hints of romance are riveting; he has a track record for letting them end like garbage, so I'm feeling a little muted on this one already. I'm a romantic, I guess, at least if it's in fiction, so Abercrombie's never going to be a favourite, even if I can appreciate what he's doing.

I am constantly distracted, a nervous energy doesn't allow me to sit still for too long.
I tell myself it doesn't matter, and it does feel that way; I can't do anything so there's an odd sort of peace. But it's only a kind of, as I check and re-check the social media I'll allow myself to check, because I expect and yet know not to expect.

You don't ask, you don't reach out, because you're weak all over, and to have that last bastion of strength fall away from you, even if it's only appearance, that would be unbearable.
There would be nothing left.

The day is hot, sun blazing down. I tan away the ridiculous outdoor worker tan lines, or try, and walk around tohalfheartedly clean the pool. I would so love to swim again, and I was asked to clean so I fill my life with another's desire and things settle down as I adhere to command. I listen to music while fishing the waters for detritus. When Woodkid comes on I'm pleased, but soon the given emotions start to ache, and they begin to taste of loss and failure. I turn the player off and read some more. I begin to choke.
At three I go sleep, because everything's better than this state of being. Lose yourself in a dream or two, or let the time pass in nothingness.
I dreamed but I can't remember what anymore.

I'll have gone out three times today before I go to bed again. Once to town. Once to the store to buy bread, cheese and booze. Booze that I'm actually not really interested in, but it's all I can count on. And lastly, to exercise. That'll be later, when it is dark.

I started playing Wolfenstein 2 and If I didn't feel so disconnected and gritty, I'd love it. It is bad-ass and it is already emotional. It is mayhem and pure wanton carnage. BJ Blazkowicz is such a likable protagonist; a softly whispering bear, monologueing poetic turns of phrase, filled with love for his friends and his wife, and a shockingly blasé attitude towards doing horrific violence. TowardsNazis though, so it's all good.
But my eyes sting and my PS4 sounds like it's about to explode, as it is warm up here, and it's got a few years under its belt, so I quit for the day.

I sit down to write. It helps.
An hour wiles away.
It helped.

Dark enough now.
Time to go out, and hope for a miracle.