Tonight, once again, I am writing from my bed under the bearable weight of the quilt, which is nothing in comparison to the desk by the window whose glass emanates a pulse of icy air, almost as if it were breathing.
Last night, I brought a book with me in bed and planned to read it when I was done writing, but then, as I wrapped the piece neatly and where I liked it, I lay down, and before I realised, it was morning and pigeons were colliding with the glass which was so frosted opaque by all the condensed air on it. I carry more energy tonight than the last, and I believe I will read a few pages. It is but a pleasure to read old dystopian novels, after all. You realise that the author was in their wildest imaginations coming up with some jarring ideas about the structure of the world, and then, you see how most of them have come to pass. You sit there appreciating the writer for the sheer measure of their genius while simultaneously crying a dry tear over the state of the times.
Today has been a rather uneventful day in that nothing special happened. Of course, what was planned was achieved, and nothing remains undone. I am forced to think of the critically high standard I have had for myself all these years. Thinking about this act of writing at this moment itself: how I have denied myself the pleasure of writing comfortably simply as a superlative pressure of doing everything the right way. But now, I sit here, having written more words than I ever imagined but not enough to summarise what it is I write in a single sentence, an elevator pitch to some stranger I met at a party who I will possibly never meet, or some washed out musician I met on the plane who would not shut up and let me watch the clouds drifting by. I sit here by myself with nothing to show for anything. If this was the final destination anyway, it could have been achieved without the added discomfort and faux discipline I put myself through.
Perhaps this monologue echoing in my head is just a lament of regret now that my life is genuinely uncomfortable—or beginning to be. How many days, I wonder, have I subjected myself to utter torment simply in the fear of becoming too comfortable?