I took this blog down. Then I put it back up again. Then I took it down again. Then I put it back up again.
I wonder what people would have done, hundreds of years ago, if they felt like this? If they could barely move or speak? And the answer, probably, is die. Because most people could not, cannot afford to be ill. Not if your family’s relying on you and you have to go to work. Or you’re at risk of being locked away if you tell anyone. You’d have no choice.
This is why the world will not drop solutions to my comparatively trivial problems into my lap. I have at least been enabled to drop everything and try to recuperate. But what wouldn’t I give, for a reliable internet connection, a flat of my own, to have dinner before eight o’clock?
I’m not quite ready to write down here what’s wrong with me, what it is, this time. These past few years, it’s seemed like there’s always, always something, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for writing these posts where I complain, sometimes more vaguely than others.
But if I don’t write, if I don’t do something, if a tortoise fell out of a plane and landed on my head right now, what would I be left with? If only I could be satisfied with waiting for the words to come to me, instead of squeezing them out of myself like toothpaste. If only I could feel as alive every day as I do this moment, when for once I can articulate an approximation of what I want to say.