16

All morning there were alternating clouds and sunbursts and a little whimsical rain, and curled up in my bed with the light not lit I could sometimes see the page of the book in my hands and sometimes not. When it was too dark to decipher the words anymore I would roll over and lie on my back and think about the lines I’d just read and how fast my eyesight was going and ohmygodarghhowmuchthishurts and then the room would fill with sunshine again and I’d go back to reading some more of Flowers for Algernon which was finished late in the afternoon, just before the tubelight had to be decisively turned on and then I went to sleep. Flowers for Algernon is the first book borrowed from the DL with my new library card, which was issued yesterday. It makes me feel a little more grounded to this place though there is still time to fly away (and I’ll stare and stare at the days and watch them pass, tick-ticking away, I’ll stare hard and steady and faithful until it’s too late and then I’ll shake my head, look away and forget). The novel is creepy, well thought-out and absorbing, just the way I like all stories to be. (The beginning, though, reminded me that I never finished reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man which I began long ago: a small, rather familiar pang of guilt.)

Physical pain amuses me by the sheer tangibility of it unlike emotional pain. You can contain it, exclude it and forget all about it. These days are like 2004-05 all over again except that in 2004-05 I used to think the future would be different. But the “different” seems to have been just an interlude and now the waters are closing in again and I’m trying to remind myself that in 2004-05 I was not unhappy. Quite a few negatives but I was strong and independent and unafraid to love and infinitely curious about everything. I would love to have that curiosity back. Let’s see, let’s see.

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