C’est difficile

It is half past eight in the evening and I am sitting before my computer with a mug of iced coffee in hand. The sky is clear and a mild breeze keeps drifting though the door, lightly touching my skin. I fed my cat, and she is somewhere playing with other cats. I think that she is content. Sometimes I go even far to wish I were a cat myself, with nothing to do but eat, sleep and poop, nothing to think of and nothing to worry about. Yet I think when I have to have her neutered, she cannot protest. She cannot have her own opinions on her body and her health heard. And I think then that if ones cannot make their own decisions, ones had better be a cat.

This weekend, I have finished reading books by an Australian author and a British one and am reading a Canadian. I gave it up after a few pages, thinking I’ve been reading too much these days. Now, I am gazing at the maps of Australia and Canada, thinking how lives are in those young, large countries with a small population. I imagine myself sitting on a chair, looking out through a window to a vast, lonely desert in Australia or to a seemingly endless whiteness of snow in Canada. How can they live? And I read through pages and pages of those novels the wildness of the lands, their pureness, the solitude of the inhabitants and the struggle they are fighting, against the vastness, and the loneliness, things like that. I want to go outside to try these, to experience them on-hand. Or perhaps, those books just help to expose the solitude I’ve already had for a long time now I couldn’t tell.

Then I think about how I, working in the publishing industry for nearly two years now, may prefer reading someone’s manuscripts in handwriting, their plot notes, those with errors, additions, corrections that tell us about the authors, their difficulties, their thoughts and emotions to reading a published book, a flawless product that also tells more than a story, yet certainly less than the former.

I think I should scribble down my thoughts and now I end up with a page of five hundred words or so about what is good-for-nothing and I myself do not know what it is up to. Perhaps I’d better go on composing loose, free-styled poems about rains, cats and nudity, incest, homosexuality, those I am familiar with.

More often than not, I feel that I am such a bore, leafing through posts on Facebook, those full of narcissism, egotism, et-cetera-ism sometimes I myself produce. There is something unfathomable inside me these days… For long I’ve thought I would die on warm thick green grass, with nothing on, waiting for something great, rude, wild and natural to come.

I think as I am getting some French words, my English is being broken, somehow, somewhat.

I may be drown under with my own crazy thoughts. Et alors, c’est difficile to give this post a title.


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