What really is on my mind: I’ve got this feeling I should write something. I don’t know what, I just know this feeling isn’t going to let me go, and if I don’t satisfy this urge, I am going to be very miserable. I usually have better ideas when I’m miserable. It’s like I have more feelings than when I’m happy, or maybe everything is more specific. Interesting. I am happy by default, which is rather unspecific. And this default state is also rather stable. Of course, there have been prolonged periods of time when there were too many exceptional circumstances, and default was hardly ever the case; I consumed vast quantities of alcohol and – CENSORED – to gain the illusion of being at ease and happy. I also wasted all that blues, because I didn’t write anything then. That makes me a little angry with myself, but then again, how was I to know?
I was happy when I studied anthropology. Really happy. I was (am) good at it, I like(d) my professors, I was making new friends. I didn’t mind living in a hole in the wall; quite literally, I had a room with a matric on the floor, a small desk, a sink and a shower cell. The room was maybe 8m² and to the south was the roof inclination, which meant I had a corridor of 2m² where I could actually stand. And it was hot! It was above a restaurant, facing south. I stood in the shower for hours, cold water running over my skin, because it got 40°C in there in the summer.
Things took a turn to the bad when I left my hole in the wall to move in with a friend. Wasn’t my friends fault, nor mine, but my friends previous roommate. While I didn’t have to heat in the winter, he turned it up to max. No wonder he constantly had the flu. But also no wonder when he neglected to pay his heating bills before I moved in! When we learned that we had to pay 2000€ extra for heating, he was long gone. Pacifist I may be, but I don’t know if I would be able to control myself if I met him. But he only made me angry, not unhappy. I can be both at the same time; angry and happy.
I just remembered something. It’s something I don’t like to remember. For a few days, I was not happy at all. I don’t know If there is a word adequate to express the level of unhappy I was on. It had to do with the reason why I dropped the semester at Uni; I was very ill, but it wasn’t anything new. No, it’s not contagious; it’s genetic. No, don’t want to write about it. My depression was over the fact that there isn’t anything that can be done about it.
I’m good at locking away bad memories. I learn my lesson, make my conclusions, and then I stuff it in a drawer in my mind and only open it on special occasions. But when I open it… well, you know the story of Pandora’s Box? I am sure to recover, but it takes a while. If you were wondering, it’s not open now. Just lifted the lid a little so get a peek, nothing out. Putting it back, where it belongs. There; safe and sound. I think I’ve also written what needed writing. The urge is declining. Cya!