It's a Sunday, the first Sunday after class. I'm a little lost still, headachey 「あたまがいたい」, and I'm at once trying to free myself from the studying, as if it were a food too much eaten and now disgusting, and I'm also trying to hold as much of it in as possible.

The leavening is incredible, more sudden and more so than when I left the lab. This class demanded more time than anything else; all else was abandoned just to meet its minimum level of satedness. It was like that until the end, to the very last moment, and then it ended and all its obligation, gone, like a ripped-off band-aid.

There is so much I want to do, but I'm still shellshocked and dumbfounded.

Uptown problems

I have this dread that everything I want to experience will require a certain commitment and focus before some proficiency can be attained, a high enough commitment to preclude the inclusion of all the things I want to do. Is it even smart to try to do it all? I want to, but is it some kind of vanity to think that I can do all these things I'm interested in doing, even to do them just a little bit? A cello sits in the corner long untouched. Stories stay unwritten. I just reread Autobiography of Red, that subtle masterpiece; would anything like that ever come from me—and what would it take?

No one is anything anyway, so what does it matter? I should do everything I want to do. Being alive is such a tenuous prospect that you should be free to choose everything you want to do—If only that were so. Perhaps that is the original and only true human aspiration.

Today, I'm going to buy some new clothes. After a summer spent entirely in my head, I want to manifest my body a little.