Saturday, December 15

Sadness

TODAY HAD NO glory, no good, no thanks. Today just happened, like a traffic light. Now I am here, drinking by myself and hating myself and wishing I could sleep days & weeks away at a time, yet twenty children and six adults were murdered today by one young man.
I was putting my underwear away in the drawer and taking a drink of wine when I got a splinter in my finger. ‘It’s been years since I’ve had a splinter,’ I thought, and I was unsure how to deal with it. In my haste, I broke off the exposed end. Now the rest of it, most of it, like an iceberg, is buried beneath the surface. I wonder if it will get infected or if my body will push it out without me knowing, probably during my sleep, yet twenty children and six adults were murdered today by one young man.
W— and I had to do a site sign-off today, so we got on the train with our breakfast and a coffee, and I have rarely seen the capital so dark & so grey at ten in the morning. Rain did not stop falling. We got the job done in no time. When I was finished I looked out of the third floor window and everything was dark and grey. ‘Let’s go to the pub,’ I said, so we went. It was quiet through the lunch hour. We talked. I like him more than I like many, many others. ‘Let’s go across the road. They serve ribs. I feel like ribs.’ After we were done drinking we sat down and I ordered ribs, which were expensive. Then the capital slowly enveloped us on the way back, as kids, all high on Friday night, boarded and alighted the train, rowdy and friendly, and I remembered school days, yet twenty children and six adults were murdered today by one young man.
Now I am just here writing about today and how it had no glory, no good, no thanks. I am feeling alone, or lonely, but I am not sure which. I am not sure how much longer I can put up with this nonsense when I feel like I have no-one, not a soul, or whether I need one. People are rather worthless to me most of the time and I do not know why. I am sickened especially by other people my age – their fucking, their mannerisms, their repetition, their shit art, their dishonesty, their slow death, their boring ways. I want to not think about them at all, but I cannot help it because I am still not sure whether I am alone or lonely. Maybe I just need a good fuck. I haven’t had a good fuck in a year, and that was only good because her vagina tasted like heaven & urine. Now I am completely off sex. I am here with Debussy, yet twenty children and six adults were murdered today by one young man.
I am, at once, full of love and full of hatred. I lie on my bed and I put my book on my sternum and I stare at the ceiling as I enter Nocturnes, L 91 - 2. FĂȘtes. It sounds so sweetly in the speakers. I feel glorious with my new bottle of wine. However, through all of this, I must not pity myself because twenty children and six adults were murdered today by one young man.
‘I said to them – “I need you to know that I love you all very much and that it’s going to be okay’, because I thought that was the last thing they were ever going to hear.’
Written last night. Maybe this will pass. I hope this passes.

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