Day 328: A long slog

Sheesh. Yes. OK. I am here. I am writing. I can’t be bothered to be writing, but I am writing. It is a day. It is a… Thursday. My eye is twitching. Why is my eye twitching?

I have been out with my mum this afternoovening. We went poodling round Kelham Island, I took my camera with the kit lens on and the focal length mostly set around 28mm, because I wanted to see what coverage would be like were I to get a prime lens of this length. Coverage was... good. Here is a photo of a warehouse. 

There is glass on the floor. Your favourite band would love to stand in the glass and look moody. I took more photos. I took a photo of a bloke. He didn’t know I was there. I felt like a serial killer stalking a victim. I was a bit upset I didn’t get to dump my bloke in the canal when I was done with him actually. But I guess I took his photo, and therefore stole his soul, so that’s something.

It was nice seeing my mum. She talked about my sister’s upcoming wedding, about her new contact lenses, about this and that. I didn’t have a lot to say. I’ve been treating today as a day off, as I spent most of yesterday watching and writing about Ghost in the Shell for the blog. Don’t ask me things today! I am off. I am not here.

Oof, I do feel musty now. I’m sluggish. I’ve got bats fluttering behind my eyes. But I’m fine. I haven’t done any washing; I should have done washing but I haven’t done washing. But what’s another few days wearing the same jeans, wearing work tops for the second (third) time? The universe is crumbling. Linear time is dissolving. There’s Brexit to sort out before that. Really, my washing is not of utmost importance in the scheme of things. I am off Sunday. I will wash all the clothes on Sunday. And I will clean my bathroom, dust my shelves, read my books, make plans for the blog, take all the photos, sign up for therapy, deal with Brexit, save the universe…

For tonight though I will get into bed and watch the Umbrella Academy, content in the knowledge that all that other stuff can wait. We can only do so much, readers. We can only do so much.

Death is a cycle. Existence is infinite. It’s a long slog. Best pace ourselves.