I slipped out of bed at six this morning, forty five minutes late if today were a normal weekday. It was refreshing to rouse from sleep in such a convenient hour, on an unhurried Sunday. I shuddered from the chilly November air that cleaved to my skin like Siberia. At seven hours, that’s probably the best sleep I had for the past weeks.
Though I was torn whether to continue writing an academic paper or eating breakfast, my grumbling stomach swayed such a muddle in my head. And in between big bites of pan de sal with mayonnaise and butter, in careful sips of instant coffee (two sachets, half-cup hot water) I had to bring to mind the remaining work I needed to finish. I leafed through my notes, and I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from swearing.
Two more hard weeks and I’m done. Either I’d get things done, or I’d get done for.
I have been restless lately. I know I made that point already from the previous entry, but just allow me to finish this rant once and for all, for the love of god. You know how many coffee cups I have gulped since September started? I can’t tell you, I lost count after fifty. This stress is so dense I can hold it in my hand, make it in a ball or something, and hurl it to someone. I am currently (and still) under a pressure high enough I can make beef dainty in a jiffy.
And even my jokes are distasteful now, bullcrap.
Ever since schoolwork and (well…) work became seriously demanding, I lost the sense of value of things. Taking for instance this pristine Sunday morning whose undiscerning blithe I instantly forgot the instant I saw the pile of work I ignored last night so I could sleep early. There’s this fidgety feeling I can’t seem to determine even with tactile watchfulness. I’m starting to believe this is how Kafka-esque feels like. It gives me literal, stinging headaches every day. I could only wince. (Hey, Danie, you okay? You look dreadful. No, I’m fine. Just some stuff.) Yea, some stuff. And now I can’t focus on a single thing because of those stuff, my mind is preoccupied with so many feelings it’s like a menagerie inside here. (Hey, you want to see how regretful and hungry and dejected feels like all at once? Come hither.)
I feel convoluted from society, disconnected from people, especially from you who I really, really want to talk to, you who I wished to share my thoughts and fears and achievements with. That’s why I cannot overthink less despite the good portents of an unclouded Sunday. That’s why I still think about work and school and people in the middle of my slow-moving appreciation of things. That I cannot enjoy the waft of sautéed onion and thyme, or the sight of unsettled people in the supermarket, the attached 50% off tags to items I only half-noticed, or the pizza and blueberry ice cream gifts from friends, or the psychedelic dreams I lose in every waking, or the same creative sensible unsolicited advice.
For now, I only want the semester to end so I could rest. Because I am already feeling consumed, and I’m beginning to get afraid for my spineless self.