Your Life is Ritual

I am so cold. I can’t talk to anyone. No one is going to save me. I want to talk to my father. He takes over the conversation, cheerfully. I’ve seen so many professors misspell and missay things in lectures you’d better just be used to typos by now if not you’re not educated like here with no commas this is a runon sentence and tehre and tehre and there. He claims to be a college man of Ukraine, pre-dissollution of the USSR, an academia man.

What do I need? What am I supposed to do to make myself heal?

Certainly, it’s not what i’ve been doing so far.

I have to make others feel the art.

I have to feel the art.

The passion.

What is value?

Where does it all go?

The journey.

Why am I like this?

Where did I come from?

Why do I feel the need to do these things?

Where will I end up with no changes?

I don’t understand what life is. I feel like something is planned for me. I grew up in a schooling system where everything was planned for me, my father’s tennis regime was planned for me in my free time. My mother I don’t even remember her. I don’t remember her from my childhood. Is that sad?

I’m starting to take bigger pauses between paragraphs. To think. To reeeeally, reaeeeeally think about it. About what I’m going to say.

Because if I don’t, I’m fucked. It’s over. There’s no music to it if I don’t sing it.

No one understands. I keep saying that. What kind of world do I live in? I want a natural enemy. I don’t want humans as my enemy. I’m weak, as a character, my statistics are weak against human damage, and strong against natural damage. I have a preferred opponent.

When it’s like that, it’s a challenge, not a fight.

I miss the good ol’ days. They never existed. I want to be famous because people who read me and understand me would have better lives. I don’t want the fame. I just want to spread my art. Or, I suppose, for all of us just to understand the art in general, from our source of choosing. That would be fine, no?

If nothing else, I’ll just say that I don’t know why my room is so cold all the time. I don’t get it. No one else complains. Mom’s fine. Brother has his own thermostat. It’s probably dad’s fault, from downstairs, and certainly he’s the only one who understands how the AC system works in this house but talking to him? I’d rather not. Is it pride? Is it pride?

I’m crying.

[More later.]

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