I should be doing something else. Something productive perhaps. Something constructive. Something that would bring some cash in. Send out application. Prepare the workshop plan. Continue with the endless research on the nature of the universe. Attend the course on how to learn yet another useless skill. I might just as well sit here, in the discomfort of my own house, which isn’t my own either, but rented and paid for by the state.
You should write! My authoritarian granddad has urged me for years, so I have stopped. And there were all the books I needed to read before I could even consider writing anything, a simple sentence. What used to be so natural, and words just flowed, has dried up. I have stopped using my language as well, a reminder of frustration and unhappiness. Still, a mode of expression, with all its embellishments, cosy names and endless diminutives of every possible thing on earth. Everything becomes teeny-weeny, cutesy or vulgar and repulsive in a way unimaginable in English. Like the weather in our country; we are used to the extremes. Here, on the south coast of England, even the seasons are just a joke, a mere pastiche of continental seasons: `lauwarm`, as the German have it.
I like it like this. It suits me, even though I keep recollecting extremes: extremes of weather and of moods. It is a green a pleasant land. In a bit, I should go out for a walk, enjoy this lauwarm season.