Summer Bummer | Sea You Later


Ellwood: There's 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark out and we're wearing sunglasses.
Joliet Jake: Hit it!
The Blues Brothers (1980) 


I just started writing.
*I'm a sensitive creature*

I've got the blues. The summer blues, perhaps. But more accurately the blues, the fears (the anxiety; #buzzword), to start again. To go and be, fulfill and try. Naturally me knitting a jumper when it's +/- 30 degrees outside is trying and fulfilling (don't underestimate the hard work that goes into sweaty-hands knitting. It's the devils work that every quirk is happy to undergo in the name of 'being busy' (to be) and can in fact be seen as a healthy (selfish) 'sport'). Anyway. I don't want to start. I don't want to begin. Again.


I tell you what I want what I really really want... I don't. I simply want not. I want nothing, nada, njente. Well. I do want something. But this something is more equal to the nothing than to the beginning of something new (or old, known, if you want it your sickly positive way).


Ever since the day, the hour and even the room is known, I'm off. I'm out. (Too specific. It's like when someone asks you where you see yourself in ten years, five years, next year, tomorrow? Stop smothering me with your questions, suspicious future-talk that will only let me down than built me up. STOP IT.)


I can't just sit here. Struggling, sweaty-hands. Do I need to do something? Is it me that needs to take the first steps? To be 'prepared'. To know. To be(gin). Am I not the sweaty-hand's but the knitting needle? The yarn? The jumper? Am I wearing the jumper? But it's too hot. (It's 30 or so degrees you idiot! You'll sweat yourself to death! What a death that would be... wet. Sticky. Wet.)


What am I complaining? Why am I stressing? What am I? Why am I? Like, there's so much more to this than just 'me me me' (although, personally, 'me' is also somewhat sometimes somewhat important, says miss Selfish.) But in this case rather the instigator of random weirdness, act-ness, feeling-ness that isn't just complaining but mostly whining. I'm a whiner (not to be confused with a wiener). I'm oh so close to the edge of crying. Although dare I say that it's not only ~that what shall not be named~ but the general feeling, being, of uselessness. (I, as once more proved, am useless. Which isn't maybe necessarily a bad thing if you know that you are, but still stabs you in the back if you try. Guilt might be the right word to describe it). I'm guuuiiltyy! All rise. (But don't start. Don't begin. Stop. Let's just get old (together?), let's be unhappy forever. Let's be my muddy shoes, stuck in the dirt in the middle of the woods (but with a smile on my face because it's alright. It's alright).


I'm not ready (yet) to begin. To start. Should I make myself ready? (Shall I ever be ready? (Do I want to be ready?)).


My tea is cold. Again. Such a waste of sugar (I take mine with two lumps). Oh well.

And then I stopped.

Love,
Dominique


What I'm wearing: Culottes + Top - Made by me / Bag - Charity shop / Shoes - H&M (old) /

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