I Write Myself Better, Then I Choke On A Cigarette

This snapshot of sanity/insanity amidst the heady days of university speak to me. They mirror my own experiences. I, too, would “lose it” in my third year. I never made it to graduate, one of my deepest, lifelong regrets. Only recently do I sense that degree would never have granted me that job/career I hoped for. The onset of cancer early in my marriage effectively halted my dreams and changed my vision of what I perceived the Future should look like because all my energy was required in the present, to stay employed and hang on to health insurance. That is a tale for another day. I don’t wish to detract from Louise’s excellent piece.


If I have to endure hearing/reading another interview with a “z list” celebrity proclaiming the cathartic qualities of writing (alledgedly) their own autobiographies, I think I shall experience the qualities of a mental mind flip, my thoughts transporting me back in time to a realm where “Heaven” was a nightclub favoured by boys in white denim and pubs closed at 11 p.m. Were Foucault alive, today, he would, probably, declare the ascendancy of the will to nostalgia to be attributable to the death of post, post, post modernity. I say that the soul died in 1993. I should know, for I experienced it.
1993. I am a philosophy major at a university in London. My head aches with the weight of its own sanity and over-indulgence in alcohol. I am a writer in search of a subject, a delineater of the mind, who sees nothing beyond the bridge of her…

View original post 176 more words