I am finally mulling over Anna Karenina, after two strikes with Gaiman and his twisted, dark worlds. Things at work have been slow; I always catch myself waiting for weekends, and dreading Mondays. If it’s not bad enough, I am already finding it hard to settle in one place. I am constantly wanting to be elsewhere as much as possible. I am confusing instability with activity. Peace has been elusive lately.
Sir Jay is back. I guess I’ll try school again just for the challenge. But I’m not sure if I can handle Saturdays loaned to the city.
I have so many things in mind – fix the room, visit the old folks, go camping at Terra Manna, what else? Oh, start that comic, dammit. Build a bookshelf, maybe start a routine, aside from being very, very disorganized all the time.
Jen turned 22 last 29. I never greeted her and am now starting to wonder how she is. I miss that girl, but I guess I miss the 14-year-old her. I wish she’d take up painting again.
I hate Decembers for all the parties. Sometimes, I just wanna stay at home and avoid all the dressing ups and the necessary shows. The fake smiles, the forced realizations. Booze is good, but how sad it is that people would rather get drunk to get away from everything instead of drinking to mingle and be merry. Maybe our own definitions have also evolved over time.
I am thinking of slowing down. A good rest, perhaps. I don’t see myself out of happy endings lately. People have become uninteresting. They either demand something from you or they don’t care. How suffocating is that. It’s getting harder and harder to find real conversationists – people who would rather be understood than right. Peole with the necessary human depth. People who could be sorry to tell you the truth, but tell them anyway.
I hope December ends well. We don’t have so much time, don’t we?