I sometimes think, how is anyone ever gonna come up with a book, or a painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great city. You can’t.
Because you look around and every street, every boulevard, is its own special art form and when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe that Paris exists, these lights, I mean come on, there’s nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés, people drinking and singing.
For all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe.
So I’ve been trying to write every once and awhile but it’s so easy to get distracted. It’s also very easy for me not to do anything at all. Work really wears me out, and once I get back to Brooklyn I’m exhausted from the stress and monotony. And then I’m sad.
For a long, long time I’ve felt really sad; I can just spend whole days being sad and staring at the ceiling and not moving off the couch. Sometimes I just get overwhelming feelings of anxiety when I’m alone in my thoughts or I start tearing up on the subway and it freaks people out. Sometimes my insides feel like they’re sinking.
People have a hard time believing that because I guess I always seem happy or goofy in public. But even that sucks because when people tell me I’m weird I take it to heart, even if they didn’t mean it to hurt. But it’s so much easier to make jokes and talk about just about anything then deal with your own feelings. I hate revealing anything less then shallow about my life.
It’s something that gets better or worse but never really goes away. I used to be ashamed to tell people I’m in therapy but nowadays I don’t really care what anyone thinks. I don’t even care if people see this. Read it, I don’t care.
Everyday I get worse at it, because despite my job title - writing is the last thing I get to do. So I’ve just been reading other people’s writing and thinking of going to the store and buying a notebook.
But I don’t have time to go buy a notebook, or have time to write. I don’t think there’s anything left to write anyway.
I got home late and stressed and sad. Also fat. I feel greasy and pudgy and fat. Need to join a gym - but I don’t have time to go.