【English】Gonna pour myself a cup of Earl Gray
自己療養=自己破壊的な文章⑦
Three months have so easily passed since when I officially abandoned my period of moratorium as a quasi-student who was eager to pretend to study what the world conceals that I don’t know where I am standing. I feel labour, which I thought I would get along with much better than ordinary males in their 20s, is gradually devouring what I used to try to defend. Before I knew it, it has manifested itself as something supreme in life which requires most attention and consideration. Every tiny mistake catches and pains my mind. But the problem does not lie in its self-extending nature but in the fact I need to face that I’ve got no one to rely on.
Any wind of hope would blow out the dusts with which my mind is getting rustier. I wanna sink into the refreshingly cold waves of the ocean in Suma. I’m repeating the same things as I learn literally nothing. I can’t stand my indecision to reach out and touch the wall surrounding me as I walk along its curved line. By the time the circle ends and I realise there’s no way out, I would accept my story given to sit on the floor. Until when? The vision of what comes in ten or twenty years is becoming more and more vivid these days. Will I be able to play the guitar as well as, maybe, Eric Clapton? Will I be masculine enough to ‘get a pretty girl’ (the phrase I hate the most) to have a decent family? Never. Having to have an actual sense of this loneliness continuing severely loses my motivation to anything. I thought of buying me an electronic drum set or a cat to reward myself but ‘So What?’ gently comes in and tells me thousands of times why they don’t matter in the ‘freaking honourably’ long run.
I’m thinking of another woman as always, but with certainty that she would hate me no matter what. Or maybe of another one sometimes. At the end of the day, I’m the one who objectifies others in the most dirty and celf-centred way. And paradoxically I seem to need them never for sex but for pure mania for collection. I seem to have stopped being a human. But since when? Probably I was already so when my parents stared at me as if I had been something evil from a different dimension. Had I been an ordinary, decent kid to be shown off, I believe, they wouldn’t have get divorced by falling out over their financial problems. She was a virgin who knew too little about this shitty world. He was too vain a person who never realised what it was like to be a father. The kid was shit. No happy ever after came. That was it.
How many times have I blamed them for their inability to give their children decent care with which they could be mentally independent of others’ recognition? But I’m not sure if I would have grown up well with such care because in the practical manner I’ve been always the one to mess it all. Or one might argue I wouldn’t be the one in that case but I don’t give a shit. I know I’m just defending myself building a fucking fantastic castle in my head.
I need Y. She was the last revelation to whisper the secret of where I could have turned. I can’t stop praising myself for having successfully made perfect arrangements so that I’ve got no way whatsoever to reach them. Congratulations. I’m thinking of quitting it all, this time in a sling.
