very british
It was a gamble, I must say, to start studying two subjects at once. I thought I might fall in the process or at least catch some uncurable disease with symptoms such as vomiting nervousness, rash from being overstressed, menal deterioration from lack of sleep and rest. It is not so bad, after all. The more I do, the better I feel (which is kind of amazing, I think).
Playing Sherlock Holmes with a friend of mine, we found a special kind of blog (of course it is special, it is regularly updated by our own class professor). From that moment on, I saw the proverbial light at the end of a long corridor. Our lecturer was studying two oriental subjects at once, and, what is crucial to mention, she didn't (hasn't?) gone crazy (yet). Obviously, there were some hardships and sacrifices involved, but it is only natural, I guess, if one endeavors to do such a thing.
I am not a nut. I may be a wee, tiny, miniature geek. I may be lost in the world of libraries with buzzing lamps and books whose smell tingles your senses. Yes, I do have doubts in my own sanity in moments when I'm considering what I want to do in my future. Hope for me is not lost. That is what I tell myself when I wake up. And then I smirk, I sit, I scratch my head, then shake it from side to side a couple of times, sigh, snort and drink some coffee. What else can I do?
Neil Gaiman writes that it's an artist job to show people the world they live in. We hold up mirrors, he says. It is amusing, though, because while reading his works, I am constantly assaulted by visions of such fantastical nature that our grayish reality cannot compete with. It is taken out of the context, and I realize that it does not apply to everything he writes, but I wanted to believe, just for a while that life can have this atmosphere, this feeling that one gets while reading books about magic, wizards walking down the streets of London, ghosts that vanish into nothingness. Especially now. I see smoky skies and there are no clouds visible, I smell snow (slowly approaching) and heavy rain falls down and drowns everything (it holds up mirrors too). I play music, on and on, that reminds me of Edinburgh and britishness. In the midst of all things Japanese and Chinese, I still have that bug in me, the British Bug, that I have caught a long time ago. I love it to bits. Yes, I do.
My new room is a cursed place. Ah well, cursed may be too strong a word to use. My room is my nemesis. My room is my adversary. I cannot do anything while I am there. I can only sleep, all the time. In whatever pose or state I am in, I sleep. Whatever I do, I fall aseep. However loud or uncomfortable it is, I am dozing off. My room is the cure for insomnia, stress and depression. It may be something in the air. I am dumbfounded by my room's ability to knock everybody off. I have to stay in the kitchen, all snuggled up in blankets (because it's bloody freezing out there) and occupy the space which is reserved for making meals, smoking, drinking coffee and talking while trying to catch a glimpse of the news on TV.
Maybe I am cursed. Oh, the quirks of fate. All the creatures living in our jolly little house are doomed.
I sing Hugh Grant's songs. I watch Love, actually.
I am doomed.
Playing Sherlock Holmes with a friend of mine, we found a special kind of blog (of course it is special, it is regularly updated by our own class professor). From that moment on, I saw the proverbial light at the end of a long corridor. Our lecturer was studying two oriental subjects at once, and, what is crucial to mention, she didn't (hasn't?) gone crazy (yet). Obviously, there were some hardships and sacrifices involved, but it is only natural, I guess, if one endeavors to do such a thing.
I am not a nut. I may be a wee, tiny, miniature geek. I may be lost in the world of libraries with buzzing lamps and books whose smell tingles your senses. Yes, I do have doubts in my own sanity in moments when I'm considering what I want to do in my future. Hope for me is not lost. That is what I tell myself when I wake up. And then I smirk, I sit, I scratch my head, then shake it from side to side a couple of times, sigh, snort and drink some coffee. What else can I do?
Neil Gaiman writes that it's an artist job to show people the world they live in. We hold up mirrors, he says. It is amusing, though, because while reading his works, I am constantly assaulted by visions of such fantastical nature that our grayish reality cannot compete with. It is taken out of the context, and I realize that it does not apply to everything he writes, but I wanted to believe, just for a while that life can have this atmosphere, this feeling that one gets while reading books about magic, wizards walking down the streets of London, ghosts that vanish into nothingness. Especially now. I see smoky skies and there are no clouds visible, I smell snow (slowly approaching) and heavy rain falls down and drowns everything (it holds up mirrors too). I play music, on and on, that reminds me of Edinburgh and britishness. In the midst of all things Japanese and Chinese, I still have that bug in me, the British Bug, that I have caught a long time ago. I love it to bits. Yes, I do.
My new room is a cursed place. Ah well, cursed may be too strong a word to use. My room is my nemesis. My room is my adversary. I cannot do anything while I am there. I can only sleep, all the time. In whatever pose or state I am in, I sleep. Whatever I do, I fall aseep. However loud or uncomfortable it is, I am dozing off. My room is the cure for insomnia, stress and depression. It may be something in the air. I am dumbfounded by my room's ability to knock everybody off. I have to stay in the kitchen, all snuggled up in blankets (because it's bloody freezing out there) and occupy the space which is reserved for making meals, smoking, drinking coffee and talking while trying to catch a glimpse of the news on TV.
Maybe I am cursed. Oh, the quirks of fate. All the creatures living in our jolly little house are doomed.
I sing Hugh Grant's songs. I watch Love, actually.
I am doomed.