Just another manic Monday.

I could break down and cry but I can't.

“It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.
― Ernest Hemingway

It's here again. This feeling. It always takes me by surprise even though I should be pretty familiar with it ("it"?) now. With her. Oh yes, it's definitely a girl, which is rather ironic. Or is it? For some reason I've always pictured painful and powerful feelings as female. And I don't mean that in a bad or sexist kind of way; it's just that in my mind these feelings tend to take the shape of beautiful, sensual women who're usually just skin and bones. Well, most things in my mind is just skin and bones, but I don't think that that comes as a surprise to anybody (who'd want fat people in their head anyway?).

“An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.”
― Ernest Hemingway

So: what is the bloody point of everything? There's a stupid saying that goes something like: "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans". But is it? Isn't life – really – just what happens when we're frantically busying ourself with pointless things as to avoid thinking about death? At least for me it is. And I'm not even very good at not thinking about death – on the contrary, death is on my mind constantly and most of the time it is all I think about. And there's nothing more pointless than thinking about death. We're all going to die sooner or later and thinking about it doesn't change that fact. Besides, it's not really the most cheerful subject to dwell on either; I seldom catch myself thinking: "We're all dying. JOLLY GOOD!" Well, actually, I sometimes, mostly upon running into ugly people on the street, think: "thank fuck you won't be around forever!"

“I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?”
― Ernest Hemingway

So, life really isn't about living per se; it's more about doing everything one can not to think about death. Fantastic! Fuck. That suddenly makes faith so much more understandable. Sadly (not really), faith isn't for me (unless it's sung be me drunk on red wine at Helen's). This "thinking about death" business is in itself rather fascinating. For some reason it seems like smart people (don't ask me to define "smart") think more about death than dumb people (that I can define: anybody who still thinks that saturated fats gives you cardiovascular diseases). At least that's what my experience tells me.

“Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”
― Ernest Hemingway

I discussed death with Vera the other day and she half-quoted Hemingway, saying something like: "The only time we're ever free from the thought of dying is when we fall in love. And only in the beginning; as soon as love gets a bit old [and might I add: it always does] the thought of dying is back." This was when Vera and I were walking in the Sunday sunshine, eating strawberries and laughing like life was just that: sunshine and strawberries.

“The first draft of anything is shit.”
― Ernest Hemingway

And the most depressing thing about this whole death-thing is that my life IS just that: sunshine and strawberries. I'm 25, I look amazing and I'm quite bright. I spend my days doing what I like doing, screwing who like screwing and I'm surrounded by some of the most fabulous and amazing people on earth. Everything is peachy! And it is, really. I've even reconciled and realised that my pursuit of perfection is quite silly. Nobody's perfect (not I. Not even Hemingway. Even though he did have the courage to kill himself).

So I guess I should just stop thinking about death and get the fuck on with my peachy life instead. Cheers to death! Oh, "Cheers to that!", I mean.

“Write drunk; edit sober.”
― Ernest Hemingway