I’ve been feeling like a dead fish today…
I lost one of my posts, but I guess it’s actually better unpublished…
I feel a lot better now, largely due to the infinite amount of sleep I had all day…

Quoting a line from an essay I read yesterday:

“Prose writers, by contrast, are unreliable friends: They are always studying in your personality or appearance that they can steal for their next narrative. They notice everything about you, and sooner or later they start to editorialize on you, like a color commentator at a sports event. You have a much better chance at friendship with a poet, unless you are a poet yourself. In your bad moments, a poet is always likely to sympathize with your misery, and in your good moments to imagine you as a companion for a night on the town. Most poets don’t study character enough to be able to steal it; they have enough trouble understanding what character is.”

I know, for a fact, that I am in almost every way identical to the description of a prose writer; I am the observer, always analyzing, I am the watcher, always speculating: I am the narrator.
At a concert I went to a few weeks ago, a person came up to the front and announced the death of one of the performers. A sudden silence fell over the audience; breaths held, astounded eyes restlessly exchanging glances, followed by a quiet murmur.
Despite my own amazement, and maybe a little bit of fright — I found myself recording the scene around me every passing moment, translating it into silent narration inside… What am I trying to say? That I felt funny and sick after a while, accusing myself of focusing not on the grave news but on the crowd’s reactions, for it seemed almost remotely inhuman and umsympathetic… then I realized that I was a prose writer, regardless however I adore composing poetry.

Writing used to do me little good when I was depressed, but it seems to have turned out otherwise tonight —
Now, will food make me feel even better? We’ll soon find out…

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