I am an extremist who is extremely exhausted of her self.

"Critics, mainly men, mainly Parisians, have attacked what I write. They charge me with writing in a way that is obscene on two levels, social and sexual. Social, because in some of my texts my subject is the inequality of social conditions, of cultures; sexual because in Passion Simple, I described - calmly and precisely - the passion of a mature woman, lived in adolescent, 'romantic' mode, but also very physically - without the emotional framework, the moral judgement, without precisely the romantic coventions which are expected from a woman writer.

(Annie Ernaux, 2003)

I am exhausted. From what? From myself? It is possible. In a matter of a week, half my confidence was pulled away from me. Now I have been struggling to put together a manuscript, eating (burgers, brownies) and have discovered when one is "brain dead" they also don't see straight. I hadn't known this. Had some crap poem read today. I hadn't given it an ounce of thought, which is kind of what I needed to do (not be thinking). What came to mine was flamingos, crabs and beheaded mannequins. The professor liked it. He said it was a cynical portrayal of my romantic work. I laughed, deliriously. I mean I really am delirious. Plus, it made me think of how every male who comes into my room is frightened of the mannequin heads sitting there watching through the dark. Of course, I told the class this, which made me laugh harder when the professor said are you sure they aren't just afraid of you and the idea of you dressing the mannequins and calling them when you are away from the apartment? I laughed and laughed. I've lost my mind. We talked fashion, the runway which made me think of Who Are You Polly Magoo? Which no one had heard about, that shocked me. I need to go get coffee, perhaps from Think. I have less than 15 minutes. I'm going to Astor Haircuts (yes yes, the barber shop) to get my hair cut. I should just call it a day and have wine instead. I take it all so seriously, every day, thinking hard but yet, feeling like I am hardly thinking. I am not ready for these applications and somehow it comes down to this, I sleep with self styled procrastination and I am the subject of an egotistical yearning. All taken from Lyn Hejinian. The truth out of my mouth? I am scared. I am scared about graduating and what life will be like after this, after this academia bubble, where will I be living. I know these are small things in the scheme of larger concerns but I have my nostalgia always - a constant doubt/questioning of what I have done (what if..?) - and I often think I am denying and avoiding the other dimension. 

Am I an addict. If you have to question it or rather, are compelled to, then maybe you are.

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