I can’t imagine ever finding a book that I feel so connected to in the rest of my life. I have read only thirty pages of it and it is still that high on my radar at all times. I keep it in my backpack, because I read it when I’m really, dangerously upset (I also held it during the lockdown at the campus a few weeks ago).
This is weird. The end of iTremble. This thing has been a part of my life for four years. Four years. That’s like high school. I have to say it was a lot better than the two years I went to high school. It’s been a constant, something I’ve been endlessly proud of. I still am, really. Very proud. I’ll never delete this, because it would be like deleting a part of myself, which I very strongly don’t believe in. (God damnit, I am ending every one of these fucking sentences with a fucking preposition. Ugh.)
I almost changed the rotation of this image to “normal” but decided against it, because I felt it was fitting. I don’t have a reason, currently, just like I don’t have a reason that the number 208 feels special to me, like I know it from somewhere.
The last of the lasts. The final one. I hate this. And yet I’m excited for it, and thankful. Perhaps like graduating? That sounds like an appropriate word to use. Graduating. I don’t know what I’m graduating to, per se (fucking preposition again), but I like that this part of my life is over.
Lord knows what effect this will have on me next week at this time. No iTremble to do. I’m floaty already; how much more can I pile on before I breakdown? Honestly, what I’m thinking. I stopped my weekly counselling appointments, now this. Can I be much floatier? Can I be sane and be that floaty?
I still have scb, and that’s not going anywhere for the time being. I knew that once I ended this, my focus would shift more solely on scb instead of juggling both (and sometimes dropping scb). So that’s fine.
This is the longest post on here. Damn. I’m starting to get sick (physically; emotionally I am fine) so I’ll wrap it up.
I like this blog a lot. I love it. It’s my home. It’s part of my universe (can I say my TARDIS? Because sometimes that’s how I feel about things). I can only think to end this by saying thank you, although I’m not sure who I am thanking or why I am thanking that person or persons. I also want to end it with a random Nausea quote, because it feels appropriate. I’m just going to open it up to a page and type the first sentence that catches my eye.
Mother fucker, nothing can be simple.
“How good you are, dear Mama!”
As if that isn’t perfect enough. Just two lines above that, from the narrator:
“I open the book at random: the mother and daughter are speaking of Eugénie’s growing love:”
This fucking book. Sartre, I love you. iTremble, I love you. My love grows, and other poetic bullshit. (One of these sentences will be a good last one.) (Oh, there it is.) (I will not say whoomp there it is.) (Fuck, I just said it.)
Fuck, I just did it.