The bitter cold in my room is beginning to worry me. Can you freeze to death from prolonged sessions in a mildly cold room? I ask myself that question now as I drink coke and plough through this writers block. Coke is awful, evil capitalist superpower dragging my morals across the floor as I take each sip. I don’t particularly care though, I care about Newcastle, and Simon Sheffield, and history, and Tom Cruise. Can all these things be represented through my early lonely university experience? I ask myself this question as I put a second jumper on to clothe myself from the dread. The coke is nice, yet I can taste the sugar more than usual. Perhaps it’s because I’m having one of my transparent periods, where everything seems clear. My typing hands are possessed by some writing demon, a friend inside me I don’t see often enough. Or an enemy I’m at war with.
I can see out of my window two men across the bridge. Are they workers? Honest people, that actually contribute to society? Possibly electricians, the white box they are circulating around looks full of electrics. One of them is on the phone. I wonder what he’s talking about. Probably how they are ill prepared for the job at hand, but still require payment. Are they lazy or righteous? They’ve gone inside to what I envision is a much warmer building than the one I’m sat in. Although it has warmed up a bit, thanks to my ability to switch the heating on. I can hear the coke fizzing still.
Continuing to stare out of my window is meaningless; I need to get out there. Talk to people; not let my anxiety control me. Who would I talk to? The homeless guy outside the old baths? He doesn’t scare me like the rest of them. There is a patience too him, an enormous sense of experience. He doesn’t need your change; he’s had your change. I finished my coke. This is far more rewarding than my university course. A foundation year. What a joke I am, what a failure, what a reject. Maybe not that last one, I am sure I have some fans out there. Selasi from Kenya reads my blog on a library computer that he commutes to after his school day. He is a well of Kenyan, adopted by rich parents, saved from the Nairobi slums. Lived through turmoil and now he enjoys my witty rhetoric on a Woody Allen film. This is my dream.
Shall I research for this? Is my goal to plunge through page after page in the library? I’m not entirely sure what this is. Is it real, or am I just asking myself too many questions. It’s too abstract, too indefinite to be called anything. There’s no need for a title or a description. My teeth hurt from the coke, I’m regretting drinking it. The plan was to write about the new Daniel Radcliffe films, and it’s transformed into this. I have sat down at my laptop and metamorphosed into some languid poet. Or a fool. The sentence before the last probably doesn’t make any sense under the microscope. The green pen of the a-level marker would ruin those few words, and then write a series of ‘poor comments’ in the margin. Thank god that’s over with.
I have 11 minutes left until I have to start getting ready to leave. Or meet. Or whatever it is I’m doing. Putting a time limit on this makes it all the more exciting. Will this ever be read? Another question that will probably never be answered. A question that will be lost in the stratosphere of my subconscious when I delete this in 10 minutes. That was a fast 60 seconds. I’ve always had this notion of time passing at the same rate as normal; making it easier to suffer through three periods of German when I was 14. However now I see time for what it is. A traitor. Someone we put so much trust into for them only to kill us. I’m going to stop now.