distant dreams

bank account. manicure.

These titles are easy to come up with. I just think about the two things that affected my overall mood the most, and plonk it down with affirmative full-stops. It is the starring emotion that is difficult to pin down. To an almost supernatural extent, I can never escape from the wily twists and turns of this fickle soul inhabiting my body. There must be more than two parts to it.

Going on the internet is a double-edged sword. I am either ecstatic and comforted, or depressed and achingly jealous of other people. Perhaps this happens to more people more often than I give the internet credit for. Or it doesn't. It is a shame that by relying on the binary, we have gradually become accustomed to binary as a way of living - of thinking - of thriving. Yes or no? Black or white? Bad or good? Friend or enemy? All stories have been this way for a long time, and the few that manage to wheedle out of this infatuation with binary either confuse or amaze. I would like to use fancier words to exhibit my disillusionment with myself, but somehow it doesn't seem appropriate in this paragraph. Doesn't sit well with the porridge I had last night.

All existential inquiries aside, there is a charm to be admired about getting your hair dyed, and your nails painted. It makes me feel pretty. Self-assured. Ready to receive whatever praise or critical comment that may drift my way in this river of society, so clogged up with variation. It is like announcing to an indifferent and no less cruel world at large that you have made a decision and you are sticking by it. You will display it proudly, until further ado. Sometimes, I dislike the way I think, too.

I checked my bank account to see if the internship allowance had been transferred. It doesn't seem like it. In fact, I had finished the job on Friday, and it is still Sunday. So I do not suppose they would be so eager as to carry out allowances on a weekend. Perhaps on Monday, tomorrow, that promised sum will be in my bank account. I simply cannot wait for the numbers to bump up ever so subtly - but significantly - and feel reassured I was rewarded for my past efforts. Questions about desert and earnestness fail to completely invade the forefront of my thoughts, faltering under a basic nurtured greed to feel financially stable. I did take a passing glance at my other, English-based account, and the exchange rate value nearly drove me to tears. The astounding failure of my own country's developing economy, its mere incompetence against the British Pound, is heartbreaking. In a sickening relapse from the indoctrination of Sunday School and moral-soaked childhood tales, I pictured my father as he is now but with a little more wrinkle, giving giant wads of hard-earned cash to some faceless, fat, (white?) authority. I pictured myself being lazy, a little cheeky about new clothes, and not getting the best best best grades I humanly could. There. Mood = depressed. Relapse.

I need to get money in soon. And quickly. My father cannot be allowed to toil onward into the foreseeable future like this, in  a reality I myself would not want to live. But how? Everything pointing towards good income is going to take so much more money. Even this cursed, perfect education 20 years in the making, is going to go on for an unforgiving 5 years more before anything substantial will rear its head. Patience? Is that what this world expects from me? I do not believe in this and yet, I am helpless, utterly, against it. Perhaps if I knew how to drive I could go around to places and meet people and do things and become somebody in an express manner. A paradox I present to myself: efficiency is valued but acceleration is untrustworthy. What then, is there to do? You may say the solution is to worry less. You may also be a little slow. Is there any fault to that? In conclusion: death is perhaps, after all, a sensible route. Neither wise nor fair - but sensible, given this economy. It is also highly difficult to achieve if you need something comforting to fall back on.

My mother is my single harshest critique. She does not have to say a word. In fact, there is no real need for her to be a critic at all of my general existence and life choices. I simply imagine her saying things, and I am defeated. I orchestrate my own hubris.

Where did all this pour forth from? The bank account. Those damned digits. Devils in disguise.
It is a short entry today, but having an outlet is rather helpful. My writing style is also a tad dissimilar today. I have just completed Season One of the show, Good Omens. I will admit to a crime here so tell not another soul - I do not have an Amazon Prime Original or whatever account. I use the other streaming websites like most everyone I don't know. I am too cheap, and too afraid, and too guilty altogether to want for an account with these visual entertainment organisations. Online subscriptions scare me, if you really must know. They feel similar to people you meet and get to know - both within and beyond your present ability to understand. I make mountains out of molehills and this is treated negatively.

Perhaps even with my bank account-induced panic attacks and my small swell of pride after getting a good manicure stand no chance against the fact that I am still hoping for stimulus. 

For change.