Brainstorming

I’m just looking at the cursor flashing on my screen. I dream that words are gonna start writing themselves and that “Knock-knock Stormy” will appear and that I’ll grab it and let it carry me through a swirling vortex of psychedelic colours to a reality that isn’t this one.

I write in English now. Check me out. I catch myself speaking in English to even my fellow countrymen. Do I hate me for that? Maybe.

My room is slowly becoming an assortiment of stuff. All sorts of stuff. Books, DVDs, work stuff, gym stuff, shoes, cushions, clothes, bills, teddy bears, notes, jewelry, posters, hair products, tickets, phone chargers, ashtrays, hats, bathrobes, photos, souvenirs, mugs, fairy wings, shine-in-the-dark wigs and more shoes. I get angry, I realise I don’t need so much crap, I spend ages throwing away everything that, under careful consideration, classify as useless and then I accumulate even more stuff.

Lists are a very important thing these days. Grocery-shopping lists, to-pay lists, to-do lists, items-to-pack-in-my-suitcase lists, albums-to-listen lists, movies-to-watch lists, books-to-read lists. To hell with the lists. I must convince myself to burn them all.  

The fact that I need to be focused all the time and, more specifically, the realisation that I’m most certainly not, is finally catching up with me. I was standing at a bus-stop the other day. Actually, my body was at the bus stop. I was a million miles away. Anyway, this lady asks “Have you been here long?” and I simply reply “About three years”. I had to see the horror in her eyes to realise than I was being an idiot. See what I mean?

Also, it’s becoming imperative that I reorganise the archiving system of my brain, because the current one is basically useless. I have a superhuman storage capacity when it comes to song lyrics and book quotes, but I cannot for the life of me remember birthdays, dentist appointments, or to buy that damn bottle opener to replace the one I lost a year ago. Maybe I should keep the lists after all.

My brain has also gotten into the horrible habit of starting to analyse all sorts of problems I had, have or possibly will have, alongside with all sorts of existential and universal issues, when I want to sleep. “Oh excellent, I see you’re going to bed. Remember that thing that person said to you fifteen years ago? What was that all about? Shall we do something about it? Remember that thing that happened at work three months ago? Let’s see how we can torture you with it. You know that thing that will be the result of that other thing you’ve been postponing for the past year? Let’s think about that.”

Which is probably why, when I finally do manage to go to sleep, I find myself very unwilling to wake up. When I have no plans for the weekend, I’m perfectly comfortable to spend it all in bed. I have this sleeping mask that I put on when daylight fills the room. It’s quite funny actually because it tricks me to thinking it’s still dark, so I sleep some more and when I finally wake up I have no idea what day it is, let alone what time it is. That’s not a problem in England though because, generally, it’s so gloomy that you don’t know what time it is anyway. 

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say with all this. Maybe all I need is a mug of steaming hot milk.