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They’re not kidding when they say time is relative. It feels like time is speeding up and slowing down and wiggling all around, at the moment. Eleven days till my move. Sometimes time seems to go so slow, I just want the day to arrive. And then sometimes time seems so fast and I doubt I can get everything ready and it would really be helpful if I could just preserve the status quo and not have to deal with any changes for, say, a year or two. <\/p>\n
The closer it gets the more scary it seems. And the more excited I feel.<\/p>\n
I packed lots of stuff today. I think I have inhaled too much dust. I suddenly got very tired and lethargic. It’s all very mentally exhausting as well. I wish I could just fast-forward to August 1st and have it all be done. And start my new life. All this packing and planning and financial applications, I don’t find it very funny. But it’s a means to an end. And it feels good to shed some of the old skin, get rid of some of the old junk. Things that have been stacking up for years and years. Why do I have so many things that I don’t really need? And all the dust weighing everything down.<\/p>\n
I started reading again last night. I had sort of stopped. My giant R.E.M. biography had ground me to a halt with long lists of technical data. I lost the lust to read. But with all the packing I have been going through my old books too and suddenly the desire to read was back. Fiction is what I need. I have started on “Berlin Lichtenberg Transit”, which is a book about an angel, at least I suspect so. Reading fiction always makes me want to write fiction. When I was a little boy with big hopes for the future I always wanted to be a writer. First I wanted to be Dennis J?rgensen. And then I wanted to be Stephen King. And now I would like to be myself. Maybe when I move into my appartment I will finally sit down and write my book. Something about phobias and goats and loneliness and dreams and falling leaves and falling trees and violent impulses and ice cold coca cola. Something like that. <\/p>\n
I write almost every day I guess. Blogging. I just wish I could write stories too, real stories. I don’t even want them published. I’d print them myself and hand them out on the street. Harass strangers like that.<\/p>\n
I want to learn how to play the guitar and harass people with my songs too. I want to paint. I guess for some reason I have a lot of desire to be creative and to share my feelings with people. And yet I have never been able to do exactly that. I never share my feelings. I can’t play the guitar, I can’t draw or paint. I can’t write stories. So I am left with blogging I guess. Oh and posting millions of pictures of goats, of course.<\/p>\n
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