two thousand and seven is a huge number. a great amount of time. even compared to it’s own amazingly abstract and incoherent everything. everything. no point a, no point b, no alpha or omega, no nothing. yet everything. and i find myself struggling with it, against it.

i’m eighteen years old. i’m abstract.

it’s 00:59 now, one more minute and i’m supposed to be sleeping. minutes. they’re nothing. all i should take into consideration is how sleepy i am. that’s something i can relate to. i always find myself being sleepy, but i don’t want to sleep because i don’t want to waste time. or, to put it in other terms, i don’t want to waste existence. i want to do something every day. every abstract, i want to fill this blank void fucking space with motion, dynamic motion. physical things. joy. not thoughts. i find myself doing nothing every single day. or, well, i do things, but they bring me no joy. only the weekends are fun. at least they used to be. all my friends are scattered around everywhere or at home and i’m in volda alone during the weekends. not always, but it feels like it. i want to care about one person more than the rest, if not for love or any of that sappy shit, just for the sake of doing something to fill my days. and it would probably bring me joy, too. i guess that’s what cynics call a girlfriend. and there are candidates for it, at least for me, i don’t know if i’m a candidate for anyone, but there are some for me. i just never seem to take any initiatives, i’m not sure if i want to. i’m not sure about anything. i like contrasts. a laptop screen against the void of a black room, blank versus something. i’m blank and i need something. asocial apathy. that doesn’t make sense but neither do you. argh. someone bring me coffee and warm sweaters, fuck the winter and fuck the snow. white covering every color, whiting out, erasing, fading out. during weekdays it’s cold and during weekends it’s warm because everyone is getting drunk or having sex. or both. probably. that’s the decline of civilization, right there. is this what we’ve become?

yet, somehow this, us, isn't despair.

i planned my birthday well. i saved my one and only cigarette given from a friend, walked up a beautiful mountain and shifted into thought just as the day shivered into night. a kind of euphoria.