diary of a sick man

 Diary of a Sick Man:

Oh dear Lord, how many days has it been since the last time I walked on the pavement of those nearby unfriendly streets? I can't recall anything—the time, the day. What date today! This is to say that I am still spending most of my time in bed, cursed with this fragile, skinny body. Who knows, maybe I'm dying. I miss the pavement and its dusty, polluted air. What's more, I keep receiving bad news as if it's my punishment. Rejected by this, unwanted by that. Half a year has gone by, and I haven't improved much. I'm pretty much like the condition of my own country, with its regressing laws and norms. Such a shame, and there's no one to blame but myself. How awful it is to live in this kind of condition—frustration meets desperation, complicated by poverty. My hot-headedness will not lead me anywhere. The goddess of fortune is avoiding me, that's for sure. These days, I feel like talking to somebody, but it's not good because I'll be babbling nonsense, cringing them to death. I keep dreaming about my long-lost friendships too, their familiar faces projected vividly in my head as if they're still my friends. Maybe I'm missing being around people. Don't they miss my greatness? It's such a waste to have this pack of cigarettes and only be able to smoke them alone. It would be nice to share them with someone, shooting the breeze while we're at it.

Anyway, I shouldn't be smoking anymore. My nose is clogged, and when I try to give 'something' a mean side-eye, my right temple starts to ache badly. Maybe this is a foreshadowing of what might happen in the future, a warning for me not to look at things condemningly—by things, I mean people. Haha. Yesterday, I swear, I was thinking very deeply, like I'm some sort of philosopher. Only to realize that I have nothing to offer anymore. Sometimes, I feel like hanging myself by the neck on that tree nearby the toll road where, in the past, a man did the same. But then I realize I don't have the will to buy the rope or tie it up on the branch of the tree. It seems too tiring, and my body is still very weak. I still vomit from time to time. It's very paradoxical of me to want something but not want it at the same time.

Maybe I simply long to be healthy again, because in sickness, I can't kick people in their eyes. Oh, that was a feeble punchline.
Dear Lord, where has my creativity fled? I haven't sharpened my pencil in half a year! I'm waiting for the Godot, aren't I? Hoping for something that will not come.

Here my picture: brilliant as a feral being, when I was healthy the other week.