30

Time is running out for me. I'm soon going to be 30, and I still have a million things to do. Next month, I start learning French — I'm doing it; I don't care if I beg, borrow, or steal. I wish I could do a Phd. too; I'm planning on one but I'm not quite sure on this. I'm full of enthusiasm today. I feel this would last me a life time (like always; but I'm always wrong).

There is money, there is love, there is marriage… why do we make our lives so complicated? Animals are a happy lot. I have enough worries to keep me off love, yet it doesn’t leave me in peace.
I wish I could be Sisyphus; just understand my lot in my own weird ways and get on with what I have.
I don’t know what I'm doing. Let me begin with the French (hopefully).

I need a story.

Fixing my life

I guess most people are suckers for sad, sad stories. The sadder, the more pathetic, the better. I have always loved the melancholy Hamlet figure, the Sisyphus of all tragedies, and every Meursault of the books I've read.


I've had enough emotions jangling in my head.
I'm trying to fix my life —
Find where it's going wrong,
Steer it in the right course,
And the like.
I'm restless.
My heart flutters.
I'm a new age prophetess
Laying bare my life with a pack of tarot,
Chewing gum in my mouth
Like an unstoppable machine
Playing clairvoyant with nervous fingers,
Awed by the falling shadows from the burning tower.