I know that i haven't posted in a while. I've been ignoring all my alarms. I simultaneously wanna say that a lot's been happening, and that nothing's happening, but i don't know which answer is true. I don't know which character i've picked my personality from this time, but apparently it's someone who's even more irresponsible than me. I didn't know that was possible haha. I'm not at home right now - i'm at my grandmother's. i promised her i would come stay with her after my exams, but i did it with the assumption that i would have absolutely no holidays right after my exams. I'm sorry to say, i've been betrayed. I have a week of holidays, and now i'm 300 kilometers from home. I brought 8 books with me for the span of 5 days, assuming this was my chance to really get back into it, but i guess that was just a tad bit delusional, because i'm four days into my stay here, and i've only finished 1, and lost the drive to read any more. 

I constantly find myself jealous of those people who are obsessive about things, jealous of the passion that some people have that drive them single-mindedly towards a particular object of their attention. I don't care if it's baking, or reading, staying alive, taking care of someone or something, collecting - i don't know what it is that makes it so appealing to some people, but nothing seems to stay with me for long, and that gets distressing. It feels like there's nothing i truly want, nothing that i can keep from slipping from my hands for long. The things i like are like those solid pieces of sand that we used to dig out of the sandpits as children - when you press a little too hard, they start to fall apart. Passion feels like that to me - i put a little too much effort or stress on it, and it starts to fall apart in my hands. 

The book that i read is Carve the Mark, by Veronika Roth, which i have read already about 3 times. I lost my copy, so my partner bought me both the books. They also managed to get me Mistress by Anita Nair - a book i've been looking for for literal years! I read it when i was 16, and it's probably shaped half of my understanding of what literature even is. I brought it with me as well, but i don't know if i'll have a chance to read it while i'm still here, though it would probably be a more fitting environment to read it in. 

I also brought two of my reading list books with me - The Drama of the Gifted Child, and Reviving Ophelia. I thought i might be able to at least start one of them, but i'll have to see about that. Maybe i should be revising my idea of what passion does for my ability to do things - the connection between having passion, and being able to experience it in my living. Maybe i'm being a little too focused on what i think my passion is supposed to look like, and not nearly focused enough on actually allowing myself to feel the passion. But i'm also struggling with the idea of not doing things because then i can't see the passion for myself, and when i can't see something, does it truly exist? That's not exactly what i want to hear from myself as a psychology student, but sometime we just can't help the way we think unless we find a way to deal with it that makes the most sense to us. Maybe this is an abrupt end, but;

With a hole in my chest and fistfulls of sand, Raccoon.