I couldn’t sleep last night for no real reason. Maybe I’ve been studying too much.
My mind is wide awake, yet I keep trying not to fall off the cliff. One step in, and it feels as if the whole world would collapse in front of me. I live inside my solitude,.

My impulse to communicate is somewhat satisfied by my job. I like being under the radar. Anyone who is kind to me in a trash can I would trust, but once I’m framed in a museum, compliments mean nothing. I don’t give a fuck what you think. 

So why would I even aspire to land there? 

I’m still reading Updike, uncertain of what I’m supposed to feel. I’m also reading the journal of a girl who committed suicide. Too many of us do. Why are we more interested in the souls of the dead than the ones alive? Would I have cared to read Sylvia Plath if she had lived into her nineties? Tragedy is relatable, but happiness isn't. There is beauty in death, but not prolonged meaningless life. Death is poetic but life is filled with intolerable tedious errands like doing the laundry. And since I avoid all of it and lie down in my bed doing nothing, I live in a chaos which is far from poetic. 

Joy keeps us alive, but not many people knows how to create it. Pleasure is easier.