(no subject)
939pm and i am listening to sufjan stevens beneath a large white duvet, trying to write an essay on prejudice. this is a calm and quiet night, and i feel content, sitting here. having a cat would likely make this night (and my whole life) better but that's fine. earlier today i thought to myself how the essentials for contentment are a nice meal, a warm blanket, and music to listen to. perhaps some company as well. dinner today was broccoli red curry, curried mushrooms, and a fried egg with rice, which i haven't had in a long while now. someone named theo is moving in next month which i'm excited about because he shares a name with the protagonist from one of my favourite books. i hope he likes curry and cats and cooking food for his wonderful housemates. this entry feels like one of those 'what did you do over the weekend' diary topics they had us write in primary school. i remember writing about a visit to the cemetery to see my grandfather's grave. the image i have in my mind when recalling this doesn't feel real. memories often feel like a construct of journal fragments, dreams, and photographs. are they real? what is real? i wish i had the answer.