I felt sterile and slighly embarrassed, as usual when I "get over" a period of enhanced emotionality. Something had dried up, shrivelled up in me. The feeling of resignation.
The sunlight, and the thin, melting layer of ice, snow, winter, under my feet had a sort of kathartic, cleansing potential. I felt precarious, poised, slightly fragile, but under control. Maybe the thing that needed controlling had flown away.
I went to one lecture, but decided that there was not much point in staying for the other one, as the slightly oppressive atmosphere and lack of natural light in the auditorium were weighing down both my eyelids and my mood. I broke out of it, and went for a walk instead.
I don't know if this is something that only works for me, but if I am sad, and feel unwell in my own skin, I go somewhere I have never been before. It doesn't have to be spectacular. It's enough to take a slightly different route through your own district on the way home. You can find extraordinariness while filling in blank spots in your cerebral cartography. The city makes the start, and the light will do the rest.
Exist solely in the things you observe, turn yourself inside out, and purge the inside completely.
It's interesting how only being alone, and completely by yourself gives your the opportunity to get real detachment from your self.
When I returned home, the door to the attic, which is right next to the door of my flat, was open. I could not resist, and had a look. If I could, I would move in there, despite the dust. Madwoman that I am, I need an attic of my own.
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