Diary of an unborn writer #2

I should probably get out more. Today saw a breeze of glorious sun and then a 4pm dusk that found me still in bed.

Oh, I had been reading, remembering what it is to learn. The duvet piled in soft furrows, my most frequented landscape.

It shifts between bouts of snoozing and masturbation.

Today could be hard, so I’ll thwart it by being easy.

Easy in the avoiding way. Easy in the way of Nelson holding the telescope to his bad eye and seeing no ships. There’s not much that can go wrong when the day’s activity is a scout in a pocket for loose change which is duly exhausted on a packet of pasta and a tin of beans, maybe a thumb of wine in an eetcafe on the way home.

Cooking is my great luxury. Persuades from obsolescence -my instinct.

Obsolescence is the luxury, in fact. Saves from having to do. I’m jealous of these doing types with routines. Seriously. I hate them and I'm jealous. There is everything that is wrong and good in man. Structure, engagement, participation in the stink - though it saps them.

I mean, how can a person walk down a hospital hallway? Or a street for that matter? It’s not the pain but the dullness of it. We’re forced to be dulled because full acknowledgement would be a horror none of us could take.

The news spews what’s going on in our very streets. You find me over the top – an indignant huffing and hum of “Don’t want to look, there’s really no need”.

And I believe you. It’s where I am too.

I used to think that Satre’s protagonist in Nausea was a man of outstanding consciousness. Seeing a cold world passing him by.

He was not – just avoiding.

I don’t think Satre himself was avoiding. Even if he did bring his mistress with him on is hholidays with Simone de Beauvoir.