eighteen august
eleven : fifty-three a.m.

she went home for the weekend. i thought i would enjoy being alone, having a little time to myself, but...that horrible, heavy, sad feeling from the first day is threatening again. i keep waiting for it to come.

i couldn't move last night. even sliding the pen across the paper was...not bothersome, but something.

"I've been sitting here an hour, my arms hanging. It's beginning to get dark. Apart from that, nothing in the room has changed...I want to get up and go out, do anything - no matter what - to supefy myself. But if I move one finger, if I don't stay absolutely still, I know what will happen. I don't want that to happen to me yet. It will happen too soon as it is. I don't move...What shall I do now? Above all, not move, not move...Ah! I could not prevent this movement of the shoulders. The Thing which was waiting was on the alert, it has pounced on me, it flows through me, I am filled with it. It's nothing: I am the Thing. Existence, liberated, detached, floods over me. I exist." -Jean-Paul Sartre