Cyparissus

It feels profoundly illegal and controversial to take an evening walk without a phone, water bottle, or mp3 player. The only thing on my person was my house keys, which jingled and jangled awkwardly as I walked past the population of my neighbourhood: old ladies with bad hips, middle-aged men talking loudly on the phone, yapping puppies finding a nice area of green to piss on. And I sat down on the dew-laden grass and watched the ducks dance and glide through the night water. I could tell that one of them noticed me, one of the babies, who was always bound for the centre of the lake, until I moved even slightly, and then he would inevitably make his way back towards me. It was during this time, laying down and breathing in the humid air, where I wondered what I wanted. I wondered why there was a faint stabbing pain in my chest, and why I felt somewhat displaced, and foreign, and inhuman. Unfortunately, this sort of thing rarely has an answer.

I have been thinking about Apollon/Apollo a lot. Usually when I gravitate back towards the Greeks I feel an immense sense of shame - that was his thing. The closest I ever get to Greek is when I run statistical analyses on my computer. Thank you alpha, beta, eta and theta. Rho, omega, and I can't really remember the other swirly looking one. Anyway, I have been thinking about reading some Ovid, or at least dipping my feet somewhere where I can learn more about this space. Have been thinking of buying 'The Memoirs of Hadrian' but not sure yet. I have been thinking about Apollo because something about CMBYN is Apollonian to me and I couldn't put my finger on it. Sometimes I have to wonder whether my boy is more of a Hyacinthus or Cyparissus. Probably the latter. Maybe he is more like if Cyparissus was granted immortality in the same manner as Hyacinthus. Maybe I need to merge the two in my mind.

I locked away my phone in a kitchen drawer for most of the day, because I had to revise for statistics, more specifically, this big quiz coming up and haunting me until next Thursday. I felt rather confused and disappointed opening my messages - there isn't anything worse than losing interest in a person, friendship-wise and then having them contact you. I feigned politeness when he asked when I'm free next. I'm afraid I'm always at Noble Hills (complete lie), and afraid I can't see you again, or let you raid my pantry without scowling at you. I do not hate this person, but don't like him too much either. Just a strange energy that pervades him.

I spent a bit of time yesterday writing letters to my penpals, only to completely forget to visit the post office today. You see, I woke up a little later than usual (around 10am) and felt extremely groggy, unsure about how to even begin formulating a to-do list. Statistics and flashcards were done, but those letters are still sitting on my desk, wearing these fun green, beige and brown stripes. I can't wait to receive his letter. I check my letterbox every morning hoping that some kind soul from USPS finally handed over to AusPost and I have a new piece of paper to fawn over. No such luck. It has been too long. Next time I must insist that we get the cheapest tracking possible, or else I might lose my mind.

Sometimes I worry that people are bored of speaking to me, like I've exhausted every possibility and now I'm just around. It is harder when it is impossible to speak to such people in person. I always feel like a little husk flying around in the cold wind, waiting for a surface to settle down on. I don't know. I don't really have a feeling of time and space recently. It has been too warm for such a thing.

Sometimes I feel like, in every event I avoided or declined, there exists a version of me who went through with it, and that is why I feel the way I do. Maybe I have been so tired and worn out today because the Other Me went to job training. Maybe I feel so much animosity towards this random guy with a terrible tattoo because the Other Me met him recently, and something terrible happened, or he made a crude joke. None of this happened, of course, but it is a funny thing to consider. For reference, I think the animosity, if it even is that, comes moreso from boredom and a lack of common interest. And a terrible taste of being used in some odd way. But I don't know what that means yet.

I think it is ok to do a lot of things. I do want to go to the gym this weekend, but I also want to visit the beach, and maybe finish the mini Burroughs I bought there. "The Finger" or a collection of very silly short stories. I need to figure out how to get to the beach from my house. Things are difficult when you refuse to drive. I also don't want to sleep in tomorrow. I always feel terrible when I do.

Goodnight, computer.