Sloven In The Realms Of Apathy – Mad Chaos: August 2, 2004

The feeble resistance perseveres in its indomitable form to temper a roll of diabolical fields, whose inertia ravishes me.  I am amazed at the resilience I rally daily to counter a most inhumane saboteur.  I neither have drives nor direction, and even while all my days are homogeneous in an insipid array, I never flounder nor collapse.  I am able to prosper on a slim, ambiguous vision, because I know there is a purpose, despite how obscure it seems.

I have endured for over a month now where wont is this plateau.  I have looked adverse recession in the face as it taunts me daily, but never surrender, despite a lack of productive advance.  

I have been conservative in the realms of apathy and procrastination because there are still unfinished sections of my memoirs, which has also been a smear for over a month now, which is why my lifestyle is so laboratory controlled.

I have developed a pattern now in this atmosphere of backlog where I can tolerate only an hour on earlier entries, which deprives me of reserves to write daily in my memoirs.  So, I practice preservation and survive on the basics so that there will be less pressure on my memoirs, until I am contemporary once more.  

I am so sloven now that basic sanitation like dishes, personal hygiene and rubbish are continually overdue by days or weeks.  

The last time I shaved was three or four weeks back.  The last time I washed the dishes was perhaps two weeks back.  I placed the garbage from my room into the bin outside today, but its mess decomposed for weeks beforehand.  

I am proud to say that I have had a phantom start to the month because it aids my memoirs, but it would be sad if another month succumbs to the hegemony of my memoirs and their influence over the litany of affairs I am forbidden to participate in until all insular work releases me.

A Disoriented Trip To The Shops

The previous pair of days has been forlorn, where I went to sleep at 2:30am yesterday after a rented movie, to wake up at 11:00am.  

I am aware that my patterns of sleep have crawled closer and closer to nocturnal hours now because the pressure of my memoirs displace me.  I am back to a pococurante when I wake up, which to me means I ponder on the hopelessness and pressure of a day and decide to sleep for more hours to avoid the inevitable.  

I did wake up and watch news for half an hour, but there was a need to have a small adventure.  So I visited the local shops to purchase a fish.

I had a dose of Alprazolam just before I departed.  Initially I had no idea why I was down there.  I loitered around and looked at a dozen shops in a march toward the central area.  I had thirty dollars and many choices.  I should have chosen the iconic guarana drink to save some money, but instead I ordered a crumbed fish, which surprises me because I was unbalanced so early in the day.  

I was somewhat anxious because in the fish and chip shop the friendliness could have compromised and exposed me.  I could have purchased food from the bakery where I can be more anonymous, or walked into the local supermarket where impersonality is a prerequisite, but I chose the fish and chip shop.  I never had a severe case of spooked nerves, but in any case, I ordered the crumbed fish and shirked my social duty to disappear into the video store until the meal was prepared.

I needed an hour before all the interactions that made me panic were swallowed back into my subconscious.

Keeping A Low Profile At Home

I came back home after this, had the crumbed fish, and watched television, or monitored my downloads online for hours.  

I remember mum disappeared into town.  Dad was in the backyard applying white paint to the inner framework of the carport balcony.  

I had a small word with dad when I asked for mum.  I wanted her to make me some mashed potatoes, but dad said mum was in town.  

Luckily for me, she arrived back in the house minutes later at 4pm, which is when I opened my bedroom door to hear she had been to see her psychiatrist.  A blonde lady there asked how I was.  I had a small chat to mum and then pouted my lips to make the request, which of course mum was happy to do.

I spared five minutes outside in the backyard as mum and dad were there.  

“The extension is coming along good,” I commented in Macedonian.

“Do you think the white paint is a nice color,” mum asked me. 

I had an expression on my face that was cautious to make up its mind because my parents want to paint the hardwood beams brown, which is such a contrast.  

A Date With The Memoir

As I had my mashed potatoes half an hour later in any case, I became drowsy.  I have no idea whether it was because of the food, or boredom, or because I knew I was indebted to work later, but I catnapped from 5pm until 7pm, which is when I woke up.  

I of course never wanted to wake up because I embody the pococurante.  When I did, I showered and then wrote in my memoirs for hours until 9pm.

I had dinner as a reward.  It was a simple pasta and tuna dish.  Then I watched television, news and other shows, until I cuddled up to sleep at 12:30am, a banal end to an anticlimactic day.