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Hung like a horse

The letter I was talking about previously.


It's been a while since I've written a letter to anyone let alone one to myself. I'm out at Emerald, at Emma's place, staying for another long weekend. I'm still not exactly sure what her parents think of me, however they seem to have become a bit friendlier toward me - I try to reciprocate, although I feel as though I fail in the "getting-on-with-her-parents" Dept. a lot. Her Mum is definitely a lot more at ease around me. Perhaps she has given up hope that someone better will come along?

I am going to enrol in a subject over the Spring/Summer semester, which hopefully will break the lull in commitments that will rear over Christmas. I am hoping that I will only have to pay my phone bill over Christmas - that and fuel costs. My other major expenses - car payments, credit card (ironic), rent, and possibly Internet will hopefully be avoidable by that time. The only other major thing I need to achieve - also by Christmas - is a job in Emerald (any job) so I can move out here to be with Emma. As I've said before, an IT job is now a secondary goal to getting full time work.

As I sit here writing this, I invariably begin to look inward again. I feel I have a lot of time to think about my life. The past, present and the future. (Others might say we don't have much time on this world!) I have a lot of time to do th ethings I want to do. What DO I want? These days I find it difficult to care enough about anything, including myself, to have anything more than superficial wants and needs. Sometimes I wonder if I would even mourn my parents passing. How did I get like this? If someone held a gun to my head and demand me to fulfill my dreams or die (ala Fight Club), I would rather the death.

That's not to say that I am suicidal. If presented with the situation, I would rather die than to pretend to care. I accept opportunities that come my way; sometimes I seek them out. My mind races as I write this. Do I have dreams, desires? Yes! But I have long since ceased to care if they are realised or not.

I think sometimes my moods are too self-defeatist. Too realistic. Some days I hate myself for being the chaotic twist of emotions I can be. Other days I love myself, and am so happy I could burst with joy. I feel like a ship of old, countless sails unfurled, ready to take up with the wind and take me wherever I might want to go - but I have nowhere to go, and even if I did I'm not even sure which way to go anyway.

Well my bum is getting sore and its getting late so I think I'll just give up on the analogies and the theories and just go to bed. I have to go apply for a job or more tomorrow.

It feels weird talking to myself. Goodnight Stephen. Good luck tomorrow.

Stephen

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