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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
Putting up puzzle pieces for sale.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:20 PM

"Why does my computer keep crashing?"

"Well, you live in a stucco house, so the pair of scissors needs to be in another drawer."

This wasn't meant to incite outbursts of laughter and stomachaches, but I couldn't help myself. Psychiatry has always been more of a subject of fascination than one of amusement, but once in a while I'm surprised. I'm thinking it would be to the effect of cutting out ramdomly-chosen stanzas from twenty-three poetry books and pasting them on the sheet of paper to form another poem with seemingly heavy Picasso-style influences. A poetry collage. I'm left wondering if it's novel.

Thank you, Peishwen.

The psychology wave has collided into us and left its mark. Last night was spent on the line between oblivious slumber and wakefulness, in near total darkness, with the faint outlines of the desk, chairs and sleeping figures illuminated by weak yellow lamplight, and an image of myself, huddled like an animal under the covers despite the oppressive heat. My mobile phone hidden underneath the pillow woke me up every time it rang: Yiruma's The River Flows In You. Hushed and subtle yet in close proximity enough to make me complain in my head. The first SMS arrived at 12.14am (I kept records), I crawled dismally out of bed to retrieve the mobile phone with all intention of silencing it and found:

Emotional detachment: instinctive in-bred defenses or abnormal occurrence? Paul.

Two hours later found me in the above described position, unasleep and still engaged in lively discussion. I was plagued with aching limbs and a sore back (from sleeping on my back too often, which was my natural position), but nothing could egg my academic aspirations on more than an intellectual discussion. It was a tank of kerosene on a matchstick flame, and conversations on my head are admittedly a little dry.

Last night I was most active. I was half a step away from getting all my books onto the bed, or creeping to my desk and having the light on so I could think better with some references. I asserted it as a deliberate, visceral response necessary for beneficial detachment. I quoted a mother's need to leave her children when they mature, for the 'best of them'. He retuted that, and I do not remember how. We discussed, quarelled jovially, exchanged insults, and ardously defended our viewpoints, even to the point of petty retorts. (That died out quickly enough due to its irrevalence.) It was imperative that no one won (discussion, not duel) and having agreed on that, I was only too happy to digress to the point of no return. A car crash at midnight, and I couldn't be more satisifed.

A digression could spell a sleepless night as an unnerving horror movie. There was no 'throwing caution to the wind', for what caution did I possess, save the nearing daylight, sleeplessness and getting into trouble with my phone bill? The thought that the other party could be yearning to sleep never crossed my mind as I replied and waited for replies, crossing and uncrossing my arms, squinting at the darkness. I had the thought that enduring and comprehending a long-lasting discourse marked the standard of an education system, the dreams I had of academia and a stuffy study and dusty books that'd make me sneeze, and I couldn't care less what Paul thought.

We were snarkish over the 'glass delusion' (no more rugby for you, the doctor said), consenting over the grip of over-intrusive thoughts. He seemed to agree that every psychological disorder was a consequence of external stimulus and I couldn't find a way to argue about that. "Well, I guess you're right." I texted. "But what about the blind?" He replied, and it started up again. "Did Helen Keller suffer from any trauma?" For a fleeting moment I wish I had an anecdote to that, that would make him laugh a little. I wondered bleakly if I would ever stop contributing, and I was seized almost immediately with an overwhelming desire to read.

He mentioned, a little off-handedly at dythysmia andI hit a blank wall at the term. What could be further said? I was no expert. It was evident, I assumed, he had a book open and all this while I had struggled to construct everything from memory. I was in such a good mood I didn't text it over to complain, and Paul didn't make a comment on it. Or maybe he didn't have a book with him. I secretly thought he had always been a version of an extraordinary genius (that wouldn't be declared, never), something which I'd have become envious of. (Particia Marx's Eugene?) This...collected coolness, intellect delivered in precise, measured amounts. It was a good thing he knew nothing of this journal, chock-full of childish praise with the exact intensity for Einstein's and Descartes' work, this time transferred into one I've personally-known.

Halfway through an invigorating topic I mentioned that 'thing about Freud II' but I can hardly recall his response. Disappointing, really. I found myself wishing for more friends who spoke this way, but the adverse side of knowing something was ackowledging the limits of it.

At 4.26am I said goodbye and good night.

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