Perhaps if I stop thinking, it will stop counting.

 

 

I feel somewhat like a zombie today. I speak to people, and look them in the eye, but I’m not really looking. I look beyond their faces, through distance, and through them. My mind is somewhere entirely different. I don’t exist here. Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I like it. Maybe I’m just talking shit.

I’ve started to read again. Today I wandered around Hobart and bought the works of Oscar Wilde, Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut, A Short History of the World by H.G Wells and the poems of T.S Eliot. Yesterday I read Cat’s Cradle by Vonnegut. I can’t stop, and I haven’t felt like this since I was about 13, and had to go to the optometrist because I was “over-reading.” I’d read all of Dickens by the age of 12.

I didn’t read, at all, my entire way through university. I guess this is because I would read about the anatomy of the cerebrum, then about the cause of Parkinson’s disease, then about research methods, then about what ever who-gives-a-fuck topic they gave me next. I hated reading, and I hated books.

I’m excited by this newfound love I have. Let’s hope it lasts, because I’d love to regain my vocabulary.

I also nabbed four (1 year)  expired Agfa 200 films for $4 each, a 200 fuji slide expired by a year, and 6 month out-of-date fuji chrome 100. I’m going to save them for the new Diana mini I’ll be picking up as soon as I get back to Melbourne.

I got an LC-A+ film developed today, but I can’t scan any until I get back from Tassie. It was a 400, and the photos aren’t particularly interesting, but there are a couple of good ones of friends.

I’m sitting in a Library, and there is a timer in the corner. I have 14 minutes. Perhaps if I stop thinking, it will stop counting.