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A nagging sickness
Jul. 23rd, 2011 11:16 pmWoke up at 4. Felt sick. Waited for the sun to rise. Went to bed.
Woke up at 12. Felt sick. Fricking BEEPing outside. Ate some PB&J with the remnants of the loaf of rye bread I bought for last weekend's camping trip, of which some had promptly gotten mouldy over the week and had to be discarded. Lit candles and incense in living room. Put away laundry. Continued following the news out of Norway. Felt lonely and lost. Wished I was at the lake this weekend, but that would have meant not knowing about the tragedy. Put out candles. Suffocating, shallow breath. Am I sensitive to smoke? Read Guy Delisle's Burma Chronicles. Went to bed.
Woke up at 18. Felt sick. Ate steak and pasta. Steak was tough; it had been in the freezer for far too long anyway. I still feel empty. And sick. Sick as in the headaches I've had all week, but also sick as in disgust, an empty feeling in my stomach that food cannot fill.
There is sadness and anger in the confirmation of my belief that the human fascination and attraction to fire and explosions (outside of those which are necessary for light, warmth, food, and industry) is motivated by the primal, all-too-human aspiration to be as gods, to possess the power not only to create but also to destroy.
What does that make me, one who decries these spectacles of light and noise?
There will be people who will try to dissuade me from spending my future in Finland. Here is anti-immigration/anti-multiculturalism terror in the Nordic countries, they will say. You may not be brown, but you are visible minority. Do you not fear violence against yourself?
This changes nothing. I'd rather a place where I can be proud of being Finnish despite my race, than a place where I'm expected to be proud of being Chinese because of my race.
Going to bed for the third time, now.
Woke up at 12. Felt sick. Fricking BEEPing outside. Ate some PB&J with the remnants of the loaf of rye bread I bought for last weekend's camping trip, of which some had promptly gotten mouldy over the week and had to be discarded. Lit candles and incense in living room. Put away laundry. Continued following the news out of Norway. Felt lonely and lost. Wished I was at the lake this weekend, but that would have meant not knowing about the tragedy. Put out candles. Suffocating, shallow breath. Am I sensitive to smoke? Read Guy Delisle's Burma Chronicles. Went to bed.
Woke up at 18. Felt sick. Ate steak and pasta. Steak was tough; it had been in the freezer for far too long anyway. I still feel empty. And sick. Sick as in the headaches I've had all week, but also sick as in disgust, an empty feeling in my stomach that food cannot fill.
There is sadness and anger in the confirmation of my belief that the human fascination and attraction to fire and explosions (outside of those which are necessary for light, warmth, food, and industry) is motivated by the primal, all-too-human aspiration to be as gods, to possess the power not only to create but also to destroy.
What does that make me, one who decries these spectacles of light and noise?
There will be people who will try to dissuade me from spending my future in Finland. Here is anti-immigration/anti-multiculturalism terror in the Nordic countries, they will say. You may not be brown, but you are visible minority. Do you not fear violence against yourself?
This changes nothing. I'd rather a place where I can be proud of being Finnish despite my race, than a place where I'm expected to be proud of being Chinese because of my race.
Going to bed for the third time, now.
