And all the evils in their eyes and the backs of their minds....

Daisy chains, and schoolyard games...
Cello lessons on a cold Monday evening. Love love love love love. We played and played and played non-stop for about 35 minutes: all these suites and studies, until my fingers were going to drop off. Then my teacher told me an exciting story about the time he was touring in South Africa and stayed with some Zulus. I was genuinely sad to go. Playing the cello makes me forget everything else, it's something I'm good at, and something I can't ever associate with all the disastrous things in my life. That's why I don't like playing it at home: it's completely out of context. Music and the IB are worlds apart. (This doesn't make much sense, but it does in my mixed-up mind. It's also because I'm lazy and I lack the routine and the concentration to play the cello during the week.)

I've changed my mind about my mother. She's not evil, or disappointed: she's just fucking mental. Today for dinner she served: raw beetroot, patchok in wine and flan. Patchok is some kind of bland, Chinese vegetable. It was the strangest meal I have ever eaten. My mother described it as 'wonderful' and went on to explain how the beetroot was meant to be 'al dente'.

The sun woke me up this morning. It was scarily bright, the winter has flown away, and for a moment it was June. Last June, for some reason, and I was plunged into a weird memory of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and failing my end of term exams, and eating ice cream on the school field and coming home at 7 still in gleaming sunshine. Summer, and noise, and humidity, and craziness and intoxication. It didn't last though, it's still freezing cold outside. But there was this moment, where I was fooled.

There's a thousand things I should have done today. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow I will surprise myself, go wild, do something that's right for me, try a little harder, give a little more. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I know exactly what's wrong with me. At least I think I do. I'm lazy, I lack focus, I'm weak-willed, I'm disorganised, I'm irritating, I talk too much and don't work enough. I'm not going to write several paragraphs about it, because it seems self-deprecating and pointless, and I don't want sympathy, only I can help myself. This will either seem really rather cryptic, or kind of attention-seeking. Or perhaps just garbled teenage angst, to be ignored. It's probably all three, but it's real and it's spontaneous, and whoever cared about coherence and congruity anyway?

You know this journey that we're all on? The long, exciting one, that's meant to have a destination? I'm a bit lost. I'm stuck. There a tube strike, I'm in a traffic jam, we've run out of fuel in the desert, I've broken my leg, the boat has sunk, the train has crashed, the road has stopped moving, the world has stopped spinning.
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