My nerves are fraying. I used to pride myself on my steely comportment. Someone falls off their chair? A plate falls to the floor, smashing into tens of pieces? I wouldn’t even blink. But lately, for some reason, everything’s getting to me. Phone calls, text messages, footsteps, doors, windows. Any movement or sound causes me to tense my neck and my mouth to taste like iron.
My guess is that it’s the pressures of the working day. I knew, like any good socialist, that work was alienating, but let me tell you folks: it can happen to you. When I sleep, my dreams have become mundane and horrifying: missed deadlines, bad phone calls with my mother, having to take off work due illness. When I’m awake, all I do is wait. Wait for work to end, wait for the train to get home, wait for an appropriate time to fall asleep. That’s not exactly true; on the train to work what I feel is not impatience–it’s dread.
Now it’s midnight on a Thursday, I can’t sleep due to what feels like a minor manic episode, and all I want to do is write.
So here I am, writing. To whom, I have noooooo idea, but I will do it nonetheless. If I am able to keep this up the blog might find some shape, but for now I will use it as a workshop for my ideas and ambitions. It will be rough, excessively written and almost entirely useless, but there’s always been space on the internet for that type of thing. Here goes, a blog… in 2018. I’ve always been ahead of the curve.