(no subject)
Today I had the worst seminar ever. Really. If death is our greatest fear then why do we always have it in the backdrop of our mind, as imaginary-punishments for the most trivial of mistakes? Why was it bad? For one thing, I think my tutor thought I was insulting her when I suggested that her train delayed from King's Cross would be a common thing. I think she thought, at first, that I was suggesting that she would always be late. Oh! Why am I a fool? At any rate, I tried to clear it up by saying I was going to make the journey and had very little lee-way concerning time and that was why I wanted to know whether there was trouble at King's Cross. And the worst of all, I came unprepared. I had the read the bloody, dense Tolkien essay and the pretty interesting Northrop Frye essay (which I would have loved to have discussed) but no, the whole seminar consisted of discussing the language used in Beowulf. All this information was in the introduction to Beowulf but even though I had read the text about three times, I had not, indeed, read the introduction. I had no idea what to say, I stalled once again, the tutor looked a little angry at my inability to be articulate. I wanted to die. And death is a ridiculous thing to constantly contemplate when one is met with such a series of trivial things. I was lost throughout the seminar, lost for things to say, utterly lost! I hate this feeling. How dumb it is anyway to fret about such pretty things. Yet they're said. I should feel better according to Freud and Catholicism.
I am so anxious. Becoming more anxious, more self-effacing, I cannot bear this. If Lord Lieras was my soul and he is gone, then part of me is also dead, really dead. For all my ideas on him being a separate part of myself, indeed, no, that's wrong. We aren't separate; he speaks for a part of me and if I cannot muster his voice, then I too am missing. How whiny do I sound? What's this dumb syntax anyway? Who begins an expressive sentence with how!
Today I went to the train station in order to buy some tickets but then I had forgotten my national railcard so they wouldn't sell me tickets on the reduced rate. Otherwise I'd have to pay seventy pounds or more to get home. This is ridiculous. So I don't know. Now looking at my essay I don't know if I'll even be able to get this done. Everything is so vast. Why must I be stressed?
Then I checked my bank accounts and not only am I low on funds but it appears as if my accomodation cheque hasn't actually gone through. Even though my receipt clearly states that I paid 742.00, only 78 quid has been sent. Why? This is daft. Perhaps I should take it up with them.
I do not know. These are all very petty problems but they must be expunged if I am to make any sense of myself afterwards. I do not even know if I should go to the book club social (the only club I go to nowadays) or punish myself for being so bad in my seminar and forcing to learn everything with a fine-tooth comb, which I won't necessarily have the time to do tomorrow.
I locked up my laptop today. It is evil; so I am now in the computer rooms, although this also makes me feel guilty because sometimes it is so full there is not space for anyone, especially when I have my own internet. So I am very lucky. Why must I punish others for my weakness? I waste too much time. Even though I am in a computer room, at least I am somewhere vaguely real. A room becomes a mind - it part of the body, the imaginary part of the mind forming an ulterior that changes the look of everything.
I don't know. I want to work hard. I want to be a good human being. I want to have friends. I want to have a good, balanced wholesome life instead of one where I have all the advantages and still manage to fuck it up somehow. That pisses me off. I am not even angry anymore -- just fallen like a marionette which has had its strings cut. Sense, sense, sense. I need sense. I do not know whether I am coming or going. What? Where? Who? How? Why? These are all the questions constantly asked and yet constantly lacking.
Hello. Hello? HELLO? HELLO. Silence. All of its silent except the pounding of one's own thoughts...