Bitter Almonds

Like any other sleepless night that I had spent here at my grandmother’s house, I am, for the umpteenth time, faced with my usual dilemma of boredom: which is when my favorite novels devolve into simple textbooks, when my laptop Aora can no longer provide distraction through games and visuals, when the idiot box—which, nowadays, has been upgraded into a moronic piece of shit—does not suffice for (dull) entertainment, when rock music finally gets on my nerves, effectively obliterating thousands of neurons in my brain, and, believe it or not, when the prospect of eating does not have its usual appeal to my stomach.

I wouldn’t know anything about neurons by the way, so you can forget I even mentioned them.

Truth be told, I wasn’t supposed to be writing this. I wanted to give life to a story I had conjured months before this cursed holiday break, as current time permits my creative gears to function smoothly. Unfortunately, this also caused ideas of varying intensity to conduct a triathlon inside my mind—none of them appears to be nearing the finish line, however, as they struggle to outrun the other, trampling their fellow in the process, or falling into their own trap of vanity; they begin to be too immersed on themselves that they lose sight of their purpose: to be inked. And even though I form these ideas inside my head to be ultimately written, I, too often than I want to admit, neglect to give them the old-fashioned beating; gone were the days that I still could say: “I have a pen, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

To prioritize is never an easy task, and patience is not always my virtue. Similar to how I decided to pen my thoughts tonight rather than to start another worthless fiction, I spent the previous week intentionally ignoring the urges to write in the face of tons and tons of food... which I do not regret doing because, as far as I am concerned, there is no greater joy than stuffing yourself with your favorite delicacies (unless you’re already full, or too lazy, or too bored like now). And so it happened that writing a story became one of the least of my concerns, and the Christmas season, initially an unwanted distraction, turned out to be a suitable excuse to procrastinate. This will probably go on until New Year’s Eve.

(This is starting to sound like a journal entry, but I do not mind the slightest. With this, I can talk to myself without endangering my already questionable sanity. Right, Leir?)