The sun shines on my face like it shines on the faces of myriad men who came before and will come after me, grilling with the sweetness of a banquet and identical, except for that there is no sun - it's midnight, or to be precise, 2:52 AM in the morning, and I got up to write simply because I cannot fall asleep. My body is constantly shivering with having jogged with Atabak several hours earlier, and I'm pretty sure that the subcontinental spices in the Pakistan food I ate for dinner agitate me.
To my surprise, the heater is still functional. In fear of cold, I turned it on. The buzzing sound was quite reassuring. I immediately felt warm. And after several minutes, I went out to find myself a shirt - I assumed, it might take a few minutes for the room temperature to rise. On the upper half, I'm wearing a striped Jeep shirt my father bought me several years back. From where did he buy the shirt I haven’t asked and do not plan to, however since then I have acquired a penchant for shirts - not only did I wear them extensively, but also they constitute the majority of what's in my chest. It brought with me a sense of maturity I had adored when I was a bit younger. Though now, passing my 20th birthday, I have become reluctant to wear them for I would like to appear more energetic and unripe. On the lower half, apart from a pair of red-and-black flip-flops and underpants, I'm wearing nothing. I have my left leg rolled up on the chair, and the right one posited downwards - a classical posture for cardiovascular-disease patients and middle-aged women. My eyes are gazing towards the laptop screen, which, on its minimum brightness level feels a tinge yellowish, at the words I have on the pages so far. Those are indeed shallows words, and the things I try to describe are indeed trivial matters. Yet they're the history I'm trying to document, in the form supposedly superior to social media posts and Facebook pictures - in here I have virtually nothing to say, but I must say something, if not I would be no different from those who party and those who digitally like each other.
Tonight there's no kettle on the table, nor is there the spray bottle to contain Winnie's skincare cream; the pile of paper is gone as well - I have broken up with my girlfriend, or "ex", a term I consider to be more appropriate than "girlfriend". Our attachment ended the moment we parted ways, and the act of continuing to call her my girlfriend would equate to calling any girl my girlfriend, and therefore is unfeasible and morally dubious - I use that term to refer to her more out of an old reality that has only recently become memory than out of a genuine dismay. In fact I'm happy, albeit not for the right reason. I take ten milligrams of citalopram (SSRI-class) every morning, and I have an unopened box of lorazepam (benzodiazepine-class) for moments when I'm particularly despondent - I have all the surgical preparations to combat my emotions. And yes indeed, with the aid of modern medicine, who the fuck needs emotions.
I have been here for almost 40 minutes. And for the latest 5 minutes I failed to continue. Forsaking sleep in favor of a journal is a capricious deed, and it becomes even more so if I completely squander the time. I dig into my brain - there's an urge to sleep, an equally strong urge to stay awake, hatred for the now-dead wasp that has stung me in the finger this morning, and sex, sex, sex, sex, sex - apart from being bitten by a bee in the morning, there's nothing at all original of a man. The weekend is lying in front of me. And I'm entirely confident that my fellow college students will all seem to have a lot of things to do, leaving out me as the only one to wonder and ask around. Hence, I decide, I will have a lot of things to do as well - I'm going to eat the breakfast, play either video games or basketball, maybe take a train downtown to purchase another batch of instant noodles for times I use up all the meal-plan money or miss the servery opening time, and for sure, sleep.
And lastly, to myself: have a good night!
