There are days and weeks and years I want to disappear, but there’s no such thing as privacy anymore. Privacy is a modern invention and it died with the internet. I want to disappear though.
I often wonder what it means now that privacy is an illusion, a remnant only fixed to memory. Who are we without the interior world to hide in? If all must be known–I want to disappear.
I feel unwell. Unkind. Sorrowful.
It’s so cold. I fear I’ll freeze in this nowhere.
I’m writing it out. I’m writing to remember and to understand. I’m writing a novel to make you fit inside my head and understand.
I feel very confused and trapped and lost lately. It’s not the kind of thing to share with the world. It’s the kind of thing I keep mostly inside. I don’t share much with anyone.
The world isn’t what we believe it is but I started writing 13 Angels Screaming at the Mountain again, and I completed Part One, finally, only to discover the entire structure of the novel will now be quite different. Or, I’m going to write it linearly, but then I’ll cut it all up and make it actually interesting. I wanted it to be a nonfragmented novel, but I only write properly in fragments.
It’s been only a few days. I’m hungry and cold all the time. Everything is cold.
It’s an unpleasant season.
In twenty days I’ll be in Seattle and I don’t know where I’m staying.
I miss rain and Prague and Busan and Munich. I miss Dublin in 2009. I miss Lily Belle.
I miss so many people, places, and moments. I miss it all.