Nothing and everything has happened in the last month. I lost it, really, my mind went on a walkabout and I'm not even sure if it's returned yet. There are moments of clarity, brief instances when I seem to surface from this torpidity gasping for air. At times like these, I go out and, dare I say it, sometimes I actually enjoy the experience... ten in the morning, the shops just opening, the cafes not yet filled with people. I really dislike most people. I might have mentioned it once before, I'd be over the moon with delight if a third of the people living in this city just dropped dead, fell off a cliff or something... weekends in the city are excursions through hell. Most of the time though, with nary a dollar in my pocket, there really is naught to do but stay at home. I wake at my usual time, seven, go for a long walk (since I'm really not one for regular workouts at the gym) and then return to bed. Lunch at noon, followed by the most dreaded period of each day- between one and six in the afternoon.
I try to read, and it's a good book- Salman Rushdie's 'The Enchantress of Florence', the language is as lavishly luxuriant as can be expected from a Rushdie novel, and the tale is exotic and comical. Yet, I am so lethargic, so devoid of energy, so utterly listless I do the book's charms no justice. I can scarcely make it through a chapter without my mind losing its powers of concentration, I turn somnolent and stare, really, at nothing... I try to sleep the afternoons away, but that only results in my waking at odd hours in the night; of course it doesn't help that I sleep before ten, having little else to do. And so each day and night passes, I am thoroughly lonely and alone. I hate it. I do nothing about it. I don't believe I can.
