u m u d e

//// I have decided that the only task I can take on with both effort and pleasure is being inspired by another’s work. Reading, watching and listening are all great doings that I would love to pursue with every drop of my energy. But when it comes to the pursuit of doing my own creating it all just falls to pieces. It’s too difficult to know where to begin, where to end and how to even convey myself in a clear and succinct way.


////// I feel incapable, no, I am incapable of doing anything of any purpose. Unable to do anything but sit still with my books and observe the world, and all the people in it, stroll by. It is impossible to fathom how confused and separated I feel, watching everybody go through with such certainty and will. It is my fault, and there is no point complaining about it, but why can’t I just know? I might as well just vanish. It would be a very minute, insignificant loss.


///// The vacancy in her expression. A bend of fragility in her wrist. The delicate hold of her twig-like fingers. An acute slouch of depression lingering in her shoulders. Her insides not coping and her outsides; an act.

/// the thought of the following things make me nauseous

• forced conversations
• school
• questions
• consciousness
• phone calls
• invitations and not being able to decline them
• people
• poeple
• pepoel

///// I have created this illusion for myself that doing nothing but read books, watch films and listen to music can be classified as living. Maybe I’m just a lost, young girl trapped in this illusion of fear and laziness. Maybe I’m a hollow body filled with nothing but aimless thoughts and worries flying around. Maybe I am just human.

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