It's 15:00 o'clock and still bright outside. I'm almost halfway through the third part of Grimston Estate and this time I'm not gonna give up halfway through. No, I'm gonna read the whole shit and edit every single word that looks weird, every sentence that doesn't hold together, every paragraph that isn't consistent.
I want to do something other than just sitting here, but it's as if I've grown stuck in this chair. Just reading and editing while listening to Marillion, smoking and occasionally drinking coffee. This is a writer's dream but I'm so terribly bored.
I'm bored with a profession I don't have but practise it moneyless. It's supposed to be my dream profession, but where have my dreams gone? I do everything half heartedly, my soul is detached and my mind is full of other thoughts. About Anna, school, K, other friends and so on. I can't focus on anything, everything is just half here and half there.
Like a mist covering my eyes like dulled lenses, I see nothing clear. It's not like being drunk, more like an empty void, a complete opposite of drunkenness. I'm sober and I don't plan to drink again, although I likely would later on. Just trying to get my senses back, my emptiness is reaching out to fill the whole room.
My life feels like starless night, a cloudy day when the winds are completely still. Everything echo in an impending silence. Hollow. I feel so fucking hollow and nothing touches me. Emotionally, mentally or physically. Soon, it feels like, I will have forgotten what it's like to be moved by something, and somehow I fear that when I reach the end of my book for the fourth time, I will not be able to cry.
Is my book not good enough to shake me emotionally anymore? Will it be able to move my readers then? Hesitatingly I write that the end usually brings me to tears, cause maybe that is revealing a lot. I don't know, I've forgotten how to care. It's like that for me, that when I hurt someone else for god knows what stupid reasons, I cannot forgive myself, and it leaves an empty void inside me.
First, it was anxiety, before the emptiness hit me. But now that anxiety evaporates and I can't feel anything. It still hurts, and it should, but it's like I've become distant to my own pain, I only acknowledge it, know that it's there, rumbling in the background somewhere. I still think of it, but I experience no physical reactions to those thoughts. My heart beats calmly, and my breathing is even calmer. I don't sweat, I don't physically hurt.
Desperate to just feel something, I'll try anything, but regret it the very moment. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe the emptiness can slowly heal my wounds, turn them into eternal scars, but no longer bleed.
Am I fulfilling a dream by writing and editing, or do I do it just because I feel like I have to? To have something I can publish, to maybe, just maybe finally be seen and heard for what I write. Maybe, finally, leave a mark behind me or even become famous for it. I don't crave fame, I hardly even want it, but somehow the thought is alluring.
If I ever wanted to become famous, it should be for my writing and nothing else. But it doesn't matter to me. All I want is for my book to be out there for people to read. All I want is to share my story that I've worked on for almost 3 years. It can never get perfect, I find more errors the more I edit. I've even thought of re-writing the whole shit because I believe both my language and writing skills have improved significantly since I wrote in August last year.
I'm improving quickly as I use the English language as much as I do. And reading it through, 6 months later, I realise that if I continue waiting, it will just appear crappier and crappier in my eyes. So I've decided to try to get it published within this year. But on the other hand I truly do love my book, despite me being so despondent lately. And I've also actually thought of maybe, possibly, writing a follow up about another character in it. If this goes well, that is. And it's far from a promise, just a thought.
As I try to gather myself for continue editing, I'm struck by the loneliness that I don't dislike this time. I chose to isolate, chose to not visit tumblr and only somewhat be on facebook. I chose to not answer the phone unless it's my mother calling, chose to tell the crew to fuck off for the entire weekend. I chose to be alone in my apartment for 3 days.
I think I might need it. The solitude that I've deprived myself of for weeks now. Not counting in school, I have been far more social than before. Counting in school, I'm far more outgoing than before. And it just makes me so tired and close to exhausted, until I just shut down completely. I want nothing to do with the real world, I'm so tired of it and all its people constantly demanding of me to be friendly and social.
I've just had enough, and I'm only puking my guts out on this blog to get it off my chest, all these words that never stop slicing through my head. It's a whole lot of words today, infinite they are. I can see it but I haven't counted them all. Anyway, back to editing for now.
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