I find myself regretting half the things I do. Procrastination has hit its all time high for this entire semester, and I'd like to say my return to writing shouldn't be an addition to it, but it is. I want to be left alone a lot more, because the upcoming season has always been my time. My time with myself; an ode to independence that involves visiting my favorite hidden park in the city and taking late-night trips to the jetty back home. I emphasize my selfishness, yet what is truly selfish here? Wanting to spend time alone or needing other people around to feed your happiness?
As someone once said (well, tweeted) earlier this week, my happiness levels are interchangeable with the temperature. I have no fucking clue what is going on with the seasons here, but Mother Nature is terribly confused and has us all perplexed for weeks on end with no idea what to wear, and that tends to ruin my day. It feeds on my predisposition to consistently need to know what will happen before it happens; it's a stemming off of my past self, the paranoid child who bloomed into a shy tween. Yet things changed.
My mind has slowed to a halt after taking a purer form of MDMA last weekend for a rave concert (one for the books, I tell ya), and I'm finding it hard to get back on track. Lethargy has hit me like a bullet, the inspiration to get up and move has lost itself with any prior dispositions and needs. Any opportunities to waste time are taken without a second glance and then it's too late to realize that four hours have gone by and not a single useful thing has been done. It makes me lose sight of what I came here for, and as much as I'd like to lie to myself and say that everyone likes to loaf around a little here and there, there are an equal amount of people who get their shit done and can never have to worry about it. Never regret for a single moment that they made a mistake.
I have a friend who is anorexic here, and it's amazing to see the interactions I have with her on a daily basis when it comes to food. It's deplorable to say that I admire her "self-control," but that's not me saying that, it's society. Yet I am fixated on the idea that we still haven't moved past the skinny-as-a-stick look. I think curves are sexy as fuck. Would you want to sleep inches away from a skeleton?
Maybe my return to endless written ramblings is a result of having zero writing classes this semester. Hm. At least the summer holds one. But what else do these three hot and lengthy months hide?
