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*sigh* I tried to put nailpolish on my toenails, but immediately realised that the last thing my feet needed was anything drawing attention to them. Now I've got ugly violet stains there that I can't get entirely rid off. I obviously suck at all things female.

Pessoa's Buch der Unruhe is one of the books I took along but didn't read, but '[...] meine Autobiographie ohne Fakten, meine Geschichte ohne Leben' - I'm somewhat tempted to make that the title of my journal if it weren't too depressing; it's so fitting.

The possibility of reincarnation scares me.

. o O o .

I thought I was joking when I said I'd do nothing but read and sleep for the first few days, but in fact I crashed so hard that it took me until Tuesday before I stopped randomly falling asleep throughout the day and longer before I could even consider any kind of more strenuous activity. I don't know where this kind of exhaustion is coming from, and I don't feel I've got a right to it; it's not as if my life is all that stressful.

But then of course the weather started to get rainy, which was another good excuse to stay at home; Saturday I visited my parents in Salzburg and saw Eugen Onegin, after that the weather was still changeable, and because this kind of thing never ever happens during work time but always during the holidays, Monday evening I must've eaten something wrong, woke up feeling sick and spent most of the morning on the toilet. Back to bananas, Reiswaffeln, dry Semmeln and chamomile tea for a couple of days, oh joy. And since I'm apparently incapble of having a holiday without at least one stupid accident, Wednesday I fell off the bike (or rather, fell with the bike) when I stopped to take a photo and momentarily forgot that it was a men's bike I was trying to get off from and skinned both my knees like a little girl. The sort-of-not-really-funny thing was that my thoughts went more or less like OUCH! fuck! OMG IS THE CAMERA [thankfully still in my bag] OK?!?! DON'T BE BROKEN! PRETTY PLEASE!! pleasepleaseplease! *checks camera* *checks knees* ouch, a bit of blood, but apparently no real damage, can still walk... *tries out camera* *huge relief*.

In the end what I did do was sit/lie around cooped up at home/on the balcony and read (HP 2, 3 & 4; the better part of Doctor Shiwago, a volume Of Puschkin stories, Alaa Al Aswani's Der Jakubijan-Bau, and Die Brüder Karamasow), do a bit of belly-dancing practice, and go jogging three times (Twice around the Zeller See, which I'm kind of proud of since I'm in no shape whatsoever this year).

Tried to pick up where I left my Spanish after the class finished in mid-June. I can read a not too profound novel slowly and with the help of a dictionary but am absolutely incapable of actively forming a sentence, which will be extremely useful next week. Gah. *headdesk*

On the whole I wasn't in a happy place. I was hiding indoors, whatever my oh-so-valid excuses might have been, because I didn't feel like could face people, the world, I didn't feel like a person who could climb mountains, and I'm not talking about my current sad lack of fitness. It was all too grandly, painfully beautiful, too exciting for my state of mind. And then of course I felt guilty and ashamed for not doing anything and wasting valuable free time. Wieder versagt. Vicious circle.

So I kept going though books, page after page, mechanically, a bit hectic, a bit compulsive, without anything meaning much to me, without finding whatever I might have been looking for. No connection, no inspiration, no real understanding. Maybe just trying to keep myself from thinking.

Generally tired of constantly struggling, of trying to make enough sense of life to keep going, tired of life never being simple and easy and just livable without constant doubts and self-questioning.

And maybe it was the whole recent situation that still needed some getting over, but I think I caught myself in the process of shutting emotions down again to be able to deal, drifting towards that state of mind where I didn't allow anything to matter to me. Not good.

On the other hand - I could (or do) love that so much, the smell of grass or hay on a summer night when I step out on the balcony, the swallows swooping past the balcony, the shade of blue of the evening sky over the mountains, the faint sound of the cows' bells at night... I think I could love life if I dared, if I allowed myself to. But I want things to keep going in a certain way, I want permanence and stability and I'm scared of Vergänglichkeit and change, it all might go away, I will leave for another year, who knows, the world might come to an end... and I can't let myself love, let myself enjoy; I'm scared of the loss hurting too much; and I close my eyes, and isolate myself.

No wonder I have such difficulties in my relationships with people.

And yikes, I hope I've got it out of my system now and will be in a better place of mind next week...

. o O o .

Yesterday, four hour drive home from a cool Salzburg morning to sultry 30+ degree Vienna, dentist appointment (thankfully uneventful), laundry, crashed in front of the tv, tried to catch up with the internet.

Today, IKEA with my sister and niece, and if I ever needed confirmation that I'd not be suited to be a mother... Not that I don't love my niece, because I do, but I don't think I'd be able to deal with a child 24/7.

And now it's 22:30, I haven't packed anything, and I must leave before 8.00 tomorrow. Somehow I'd thought it was later.


*rushes off*

*comes back to edit*

*rushes off again*


solitary summer

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