Apparently it is June, or so they say. May came and went, but I hardly noticed (save for scribbling tally marks on the wall in the lavatory.) It has been approximately 75 days since what I could consider a near sentencing, but really, who’s counting? Some ominous music cue 2001 is perfect for this melodramatic moment.
It was probably toward the second week of isolation when I had decided to “do something about this” wretched attitude of mine, and promptly transformed this into an exercise of adjusting the brain. As such, lists created, notes scribbled, nonsense purchased, new goals at long last achieved.
There is nothing much noteworthy to add, since I have not been travelling (4 months grounded, this must be a record of some kind), and tend to shy away from writing out my truest of words, as they, how do you say it, “may be used against you in a court of law.”
However, I sorted out my bookshelf to toss out old books I literally (ha-ha) did not enjoy reading, and rediscovered a section of books I’d collected and were waiting for the lazy sack in me to get off my sorry ass. I had forgotten how enjoyable Capote’s works truly are. Even the mundanities of everyday life are presented so warmly that it takes you a breathing moment between each narrative. All I want to say is, how are words so beautiful my dude?
Well, a couple more weeks to go. Hope I can remain sane for the remainder of days, so that I may emerge from my cave for a moment of merryment before realising that I in fact, choose to stay home on a regular basis.
“The death of a dream is no less sad than death, and indeed, demands of those who have lost as deep a mourning.” – Truman Capote, New York, 1946.