Dancer in the Dark

I feel like a sick pervert, who encourages people to talk about themselves, by pushing some simple buttons.

I feel fake.

I feel like I am caught up in a loop, never ending, always returning to this very same Sunday morning, where the only thing I do is write, write, write.

I get weird ideas, I feel oddly at peace, yet when talking to other people, I feel so very fake.

I feel Christmas.

The weather is windy, the sun is shining, yet I feel not confined, but somehow restricted to myself.

I feel like I am pacing impatiently in my cage, knowing I could break out, wondering what I am still waiting for.

Am I hesitating?

Cuppa.

I don't seem to be the kind of person who can go on without crying at least once per fortnight.

Then again, it is solved.

I've made a list. It's short at the moment, but it'll get better.

Ning kõndides pimedal,

kuid soojal oktoobrikuu õhtul valgustatud tänaval,
"I don't care, I love it" kõrvus kumisemas,

kogen jälle mittekuuluvustunnet

Thought I'd add it here, to sum up what bothered me up until three weeks ago.

It's hard to keep talking to people, when occasionally, you seem to tire of them, not because you feel that they've done something wring, but simply because the amount of conversation has overflown.

I wish I could put my thoughts down in the form I think 'em. I still haven't thought up how that is supposed to work, but I suppose it might be possible one day.

I think I set myself a goal to write as much as possible this month, but I already can feel that most likely, I won't be writing anymore than necessary - which is sad because it means that I'll never become a writer.

Then again, people have published a book with much weirder and more senseless texts, so who says I won't be able to get anything published, hm?