I should be studying the diencephalon but I’m tired of that. My life is an endless series of tests and outlines and handouts. I’ve killed more trees than I’d like to admit. But their flesh and bones allow me to eek out the grade I need, the recognition necessary in a long progression towards some prestigious fucking title.
Autumn also brings me happiness. Stumbling bumble-fuck down the leaf-clogged side streets of the city, enjoying the brisk air and the crisp scent of dying foliage, I am at ease. Between mugs of coffee that disintegrate my insides and textbooks on neuroanatomy and clinical optical techniques, I walk absently through the lingering afternoons.
But how am I supposed to feel when I count off the hours by the tasks accomplished? It is my modus operandi, to be constantly at work, but can I really get much satisfaction out of endless regurgitation of factual data about the limbic system and the coagulation cascade?
Sometimes I get lonely. But I don’t think it would be fair to try to meet anyone right now. I’m too isolated, too selfishly consumed with my coursework. I get a total of perhaps 4 waking hours each day to myself, to spend at my leisure. Those moments are already so precious, usually spent pecking dejectedly at food or writing a letter or sipping coffee while staring at the fire escape with nothing but my thoughts to occupy me. Could I bear to sacrifice these moments and split them with another? I want a lover I don’t have to love. Or perhaps I am more like St. Augustine, and I am in love with the idea of loving, but have as yet no real determination or drive to be in love.
Do you know what allodynia is, my friend?
Oh God, I should get back to work.
-K
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