Again I slept in under the effect of this shit, some thick dark clouded sleep that sets in against one´s will, a dreamless fragile and painful sleep. During the day I get no feeling whatsoever. I still didn´t write anything in 2 days, and maybe as an apology to my own idleness I´ve started out this journal again. No, the answer is very different. During the course of several years and tears writing has been the only resource available when everything else has failed; writing was the companion of Frida Kahlo during illness and of Walter Benjamin through wars. I can´t describe how difficult it is for me to write these days, to coin every single idea, to glue one word to another or to choose a sentence. It is as if I didn´t recognize my soul anymore and it isn´t about not having one, but more about having lost touch for sometime.
There´re some happy moments through the day, they´re brief and intense but often without enough strength to drive me through oceans of empty spaces of my mind that at present I can´t fill; not being able to allegedly hide myself behind philosophical curtains makes me afraid of every word I choose, my vocabulary is limited, it is as if it weren´t my language anymore, as if some major change were rising from deep inside. This weekend I´ve started to feel fat for the first time ever in my adult life and even when I know it is absolutely delusional, it tortures me deeply as if I were running out of time in life and desperately craving to hold onto some limited moments of beauty somewhere. I haven´t changed my clothes in about two weeks, and I´m not really worried, recklessness, recklessness, recklessness. Prophet Job: I want my body changed.
About journals: Reading Susan Sontag about writing journals is something almost intimate. First that journals, even intimate journals, are written to be read indiscreetly by those parents, friends and lovers about whom one is honest and cruel and merciless with a sharp razor. But it is not only about confessing to a mute dumb blank audience, it is about creating ourselves the way we want, telling our story the way we would like it told, the nuances of our love stories, our failures, the defects for which we love our enemies and the virtues of beloved ones that bore us to tears. All that jazz you know. How amazing is this, about creating yourself in the way you tell your story.
Childhood: I don´t know if it´s something to do with my depression or with meds but today I spent a long while playing with a toy plane, imagining what it would be to design an intergalactic plane that could travel through the air in all directions with special wings that would resemble those of birds that could tilt opened and closed according to the intensity of the wind. Maybe it is just a souvenir from another time. That was quite a felicitous moment but it didn´t last too long. I still haven´t written one damn line. It is all about trying to feel something and not quite getting there. But I am remembering so many things, and perhaps putting together my stories is a way to avoid unhappiness, a way to make sure not to forget. Worst symptom: I rather sleep than anything else. I thought I would just beat it today, and write all night long but perhaps I´m still too weak. And when I´m strong I watch soap operas and stuff myself with groceries. Unhealthy eating habits: Sometimes I eat as if there were no tomorrow. I want to write a journal like Sontag´s, but first I need some philosophical arsenal and even before that, I need to snap out of this ill mood. I think I should sleep, and try early in the morning.