It’s 4am and I’m sleepy as hell but I feel like I have to write this. The circumstances are not ideal; it’s late and I should be waking up early tomorrow (just to go to school for yet another unproductive morning; breakfast, maybe, or not) and my hair is wet and my fingers are smeared in ointment because my eczema just won’t go away.
There are too often times like these where I feel a heavy weight in my chest; strangely enough when I stepped through the shower and tried to wash my face I discovered that I couldn’t breathe. This was not something I didn’t already know, but it’s still strange to find out, nonetheless.
Strange is a word I use a lot. My friend used to tease me about it all the time. The only thing I remember how to say, apart from an-yeong-hase-yo, is no chong-mal il-sang-hae. He’d laugh, every time I clumsily said that, my Korean accent worse than my Japanese. All these crazy languages meld into one inside my head and suddenly, increasingly, I find myself full of information I don’t need (and don’t understand). It pops up periodically. I get confused.
And I said I needed to write, but I don’t know what I’m writing about. I’ve had something to talk about, something I wanted to blog about, ever since I talked to my mum on the car ride to school this morning; but I haven’t had the time to sit down and write it. I thought I’d do it after I finished my studying (i.e. now) but the truth is I don’t have the energy or the brain power to write anything coherent, as is evidenced by this pile of rambling whose words seem almost as heavy as my eyelids.
Mostly I’m just messed up. All I can think about now is this Carol Ann Duffy poem that keeps running through my head, always the same line (“I want you and you are not here”), and funny how my thoughts (even when my brain is half-dead) always seem to hark back to what is most familiar (i.e. not law texts and whatever’s contained in them, and even though the sentences still contain two thousand commas, it’s just not the same). It’s the best time in the night for these thoughts, when you’re alone and the weather’s cool and you’re just out of a shower, halfway on the highway to hell. I feel like I would close my eyes if I hit the bed but my hair’s still wet and one must make allowances. I feel stupid for being bitter (that my hair’s wet). What? That doesn’t make any sense. It all doesn’t make any sense.
I’m afraid to rub my eyes. Like as if, if I blink, everything will be gone, and my heart will still be hanging on.
