Fifth entry: Stupid ramblings about the academic challenges

Once again I'm looking for a pencil to write blindly lying on my bed. Hands roam over the bedside table tapping my glasses, a book, a receipt, a lighter, three or four coins, candy wrappers, expired face cream and the TV control. My hands roam over everything in the dark. My face burns because I'm covered up to my head, looking for a pencil to write this new entry. Looking for a painkiller. Looking for some water to swallow it. And then writing this entry. And tomorrow turn on the computer, clean it up and then publish it. Keep up with the other essays. Catching up on my readings and so on.

I can't write calmly at night. I think about what I have to write and I think it doesn't really mean anything to me. But it's because I'm tired. So I go to the bathroom and from another apartment a woman starts screaming. And she briefly shouts the answers to all of my tests. She yells out what I should write on the essays and she dictates word for word a discarded draft  of this entry. She walks closer to the wall that separates us and asks me if the tiles in my bathroom are cold. Because her body is catching on fire and she's tired, so fucking tired of that happening again. 

At the doorway stands again The Stranger, he says I have no place to go and that his wallet has been snatched. And he offers to write this entry in return for a warm place to spend the night. He pulls out a little bottle of medicine and drinks it all, laughing at me for being a university student, saying Which Job did you steal the ladder from. He's looking at me funny and I know he can barely write and usually doesn't even offer to do the dishes. I let him in anyway, and this would be the sixteenth time I've done it. We both know it's okay to be a phony in order to get a spot to sleep.

After a while, The Stranger invites The Calcined Woman in and they settle down together on a pile of hay. They have fallen asleep on their improvised manger. And I walk around them, looking from every possible angle, begging Don't breathe so hard, you'll wake my parents, they're next to me and they'll be so, so angry.

You know, I was once inside the art faculty, it was almost two years ago. It was Tuesday, or Wednesday, but no one was there. I went in with a friend and we were wasted so I just remember that there was grass and trees. And that we walked in telling a lie because none of us belonged there. At the time I didn't imagine any of these things would happen. 

And I really try to focus but there's nothing inside my head. Then I go to my room and there is only silence. From my window I see buildings and in each of them there are small illuminated squares and one of them clears his throat and says Professor I didn't understand a single thing, could you repeat it one more time?

The Stranger has woken up and is playing with a little radio he's pulled out of a shoebox, he goes through the stations and one says It's been a long, long day, that It's four in the morning, the end of December, and that Once upon a time you dressed so fine, When routine bites hard and ambitions are low, Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, and another one says that I used to rule the world, You're gonna spread your wings, child, But terror takes the sound before you make it, Living is easy with eyes closed, With the lights out, it's less dangerous, Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright, Until they run run run run run run run run away. His greasy hands stop on a news report: THEY HAVE ANNOUNCED THE THIRD WORLD WAR, but it's alright. The Stranger says It's a crazy bad dream. And the newscaster on the radio assures that the packages sent from across the world will continue to arrive on time and that the young ones will be able to carry on with their classes as normal. The Stranger grabs a handful of food out of his coat and continues to rant against war and also against peace. He turns up the volume and holds it to his ear, still in disbelief. Sick, sick, the planet couldn't be sicker he says. The Burned Woman wakes up and lights a cigarette. She sits next to The Stranger and, God, she has really a terrible skin. The whole thing begins to piss me off because they're wasting my time and they keep screaming every time they hear the bombs drop.

In the building I was looking at, the lights go out and everyone says goodbye in a most cordial manner.

I sip a glass of Coke, in the kitchen bread crumbs pile up in the corners. The small, dry shell of a ladybug rests next to a burnt match on the windowsill. Everyday boredom has left the hay soaked and shredded. My mind is blank and I want so badly for them to leave but I can't kick them out in the middle of the night and I won't be able to hold them in the morning either. So I ask them to please write about what they enjoyed the most but they just laugh and play at writing filthy words on the papers I have handed them. Inside the radio the war is over, everyone with a heart like a peach pit has won. The music is back, It's been a long, long day again. I tell you, I don't like that song that much. I mean, it's okay but it's not one of my favorites. And they write an obscene word on my forehead and then on my arms and then take off my shirt to write a really awful one on my chest. 

But another war starts and this time the music plays along with the gunfire. And we get serious because this is very serious. And we cry because war is always miserable. 

Then we change the hay and my guests cuddle together to continue sleeping. In the buildings across the street the windows are still off. From one of them a cute chick comes out with a big dog with a spiked collar to buy bread and wine, she sees me and says from the other side of the street something I can't hear. I ask her What has been the hardest thing for you? And she just shrugs her shoulders. She speaks louder this time and says Girl, what's that written on your forehead? I grab the windowsill and shout FUCK. And she shrugs again, walking away between the drifting cars.

Come on, I'm thinking and soon I know I'll come up with something. (Is the war over already?). I have no answer and nothing to say. It's been good and it's been bad but without coming close to something clear. Maybe I can only think with clarity when time has passed. Maybe this is my secret, a little shoebox full of stuff like the one that holds The Stranger's radio. And I think about stealing it from him because, look, he's not such a good guy. 

Honestly it's been like being asleep.

Without dreaming. 

And still being seventeen years old. And not having learned anything. 

So well, things haven't gotten terrible yet. So I guess I should go to sleep now. 

And in the morning throw all of this away. Sweep the hay off the floor. I guess we'll be all right and I'll will keep all this inside the shoebox. It will be a secret that I'll bring out during the nights to show to the lurkers who come to my doorstep. Soon enough it will be time for me to have to put some order into all this. Right now I can't tell you anything, I don't have the words. So you'd better forgive me and forget me for a while, get on with your life. You'll see, but now you have to go. I have to go too. I have to sleep and then throw all this away. Hopefully tomorrow I can write something that makes sense.