Found this in the vault of unpublished posts, a snippet from about 6 months ago;

'Regrettably, I've spent the larger part of the this semester just gone cultivating a highly unadaptive sleeping pattern. Despite any effort at normality, I am simply unable to sleep anytime before 2am, with an average bedtime of about 3. This results in either a very uncomfortable and draining following day, or if circumstances allow, a comatose ten-hour sleep that ends around lunchtime, ruining any chance of a decent bedtime the next night.

'This was made possible with lectures concentrated later in the day, late shifts, late nights in general.

'Last week, I attempted phase-shift sleep deprevation. I stayed awake for about thirty hours and fell soundly asleep at ten-thirty. Unfortunately, I overslept well into the afternoon, rendering the whole exercise useless.'

I finally ventured into selling the overhwelming amount of thrifted clothing I've accumulated, with a little market stall shared with the brilliant Kayla. I am prone to emotionally attaching myself to garments, so a reminder of the mere material nature of was helpful. They're just dresses; pretty dresses in which I experienced wonderful things, but not for the dresses themselves.

I was recently introduced to a philosophical categorisation of people (gestured out on our cafe table). On the edges reside the collectors, those who fill their life with stuff - which may very well leave them fulfilled, but only if so inclined. Further in a concentric ring are the do-ers, who find meaning in a perpetual string of action and achievement. Those who travel/study/work/play, whom I understand clearly but surpass in my existential hunger. In the centre are those who just be - who need not things or motion to feel complete, but who are content in themselves and their mere presence. I was told I'm hovering between doing and being. I do crave a contentment that is contigent only upon my existence.

The money I made is instrumental for the next chapter in my life, full-time dance tuition, which has the price-tag to confirm it's bourgois impression. And the dancing, not inherently fulfilling (but were I a do-er), instead a means to the satisfaction of my soul (whatever molecular structure it comprises, in this post-dualist frame of mind).

Naturally, my light-hearted post has taken a heavy and introspective turn. It is, after all, four am, in the midst of the self-reflection danger-zone. Like a harmonic function, free-flow writing peaks at sunny mornings over coffee and a notebook, and troughs in the dark of sleepless nights (not in quality but in gradient, the weighty matters emerging in the small hours). Quite evidently - the little market stall has become an avenue for fundamental existential consideration.

It's useless, all that writhing, under your sticky-skin cocoon. Vomit lust and gluttony and stomach acid stains. You've trashed the temple, and now you'll choke; intestines slither up your torso, up and around, tight around your neck. You're nothing but filthy gutter-water cells, crying sperm out your eyeballs. You're inside-out and rolling in rock-salt. You're pulverized sex-flesh nothing.

The shame rots your organs. Shame for just being. There's nothing poetic about it. 

The pale-blue mornings are lovely this time of year. I'd fallen into a terrible hibernation habit over winter and forgotten how much I love the earlier hours, all city-hum and bird-song. It's so damn peaceful, in a nature's-own-Valium kinda way.

I went to write a post, but nothing that I typed out would appease the perfectionist standards whispering cruelties in my ear. So here is a short string of words to keep my humble corner of the blogdom alive.

I hold a deep, fundamental connection to the truth of things. I think it fuels my descent into self-analysis. It's why I could never enter Nozick's experience machine. I really want to be a philosopher, and it's laughable. I wish one could think for a living and still pay the bills.

She who must be so in control of her mind.

An unrelated picture from Meadham Kirchoff. I wish wearing veils was socially acceptable and not so drenched in mysoginistic symbolism.

I watched some Toddlers & Tiaras this afternoon. Beauty pageants are wrong, so wrong. Let alone that abyss of sexualisation that they willingly throw their precious daughters into; do these parents not see that the “confidence” these girls gain (that resounding justification for the whole sick process) is based entirely on their looks? Their painted- and sprayed-on looks?
I can see the impending dysfunction of self-esteem. The little girls do not know any better, but their parents most definitely should. Toddlers & Tiaras has fostered a loss of hope in certain subsets of humanity.

My philosophy course came to an end today. It was the most intellectually stimulating three weeks of my life. Just as I was starting to hum along to the siren song of the world of dance, academia starts calling me back. The dance vs. university decision is proving enormously difficult.

Furthermore, it fuels much guilt to know that my most salient problem is essentially having two conflicting talents and not knowing which to pursue. And perhaps ‘talents’ is used loosely here. Chasing the perfect hundred in pink satin shoes bowed down to chasing the perfect hundred with hyperbola and pi, which bowed down to stagnancy, angst and the disillusion that perfection doesn’t, has never, and will never exist.

I shan’t punish myself for being cynical. Displeasure with one’s circumstances is a sign of evolutionary fitness; it motivates towards change.

I will, however, do something nice, without the trail of self-deprecation for enjoying a bath or baking or something else as deliciously mindless. I need to cheer the fuck up.