I've been looking back at my oldest posts today. Did that boy think he'd grow? Well he did, in a way. Heroin, ketamine, LSD, coke, glue, crack, shrooms, alcohol... Anything to help me forget. That's all we do these days, isn't it? The wild youth? We try to burn our memories.
Ever since I moved out of the house and got an apartment near the uni things have been getting exagerrated. I read a lot more now. And not only because I'm studying English Literature: there's no tv in my room, no phone reception, dodgy wifi that barely lets me make a post on here. No students live in these apartments either, just a few quiet middle-aged people sleepwalking through their lives. A few doors away a Frenchman with a habit of talking too long, midway through a divorce. And the landlord, although I only saw him once, and he was more interested in me paying a rent than making conversation. At least he doesn't care when the smell of cannabis seeps into the curtains, escapes through the cracks beneath the floorboards and permeates the hallways.
I thought I'd be fine, I'm an introvert anyway. This is my own private squalid sanctuary. Although of course it isn't squalid. The rent is reasonable and the rooms are clean. I suppose things seem dingy when you're rotting inside. Good old Doctor Louise knocked up the dose of fluoxetine. That should help add to my trench, my fortifications, my wall and Maginot line of defense. Along with the other drugs. Being alone a lot has led me to the books. Any book really, as it always happens. Doesn't help lessen my growing obsession with House of Leaves. But why would I mind that?
I settled for making a few alterations to the old posts. Maybe later I'll have the courage to delete them, maybe the whole blog. Let the URL sink into oblivion. Right now I've spent too much time on it to feel like ending it.
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