Tuesday, I was walking along the river, along the south bank and it was raining. And every now then, as well as the smell of wet dust on pavement you'd get that saline whiff of sea. I wished so much I was really by the sea that I looked up the price of train tickets. Perhaps at autumn I will go. And I'll probably go with friends to Brighton for a daytrip.
I sat up on the balcony of the members' room at the Tate, in the intermission in the rainfall and the otherside of the river stretched moodily and greyly out and a pigeon did a scaley footed tap dance on an a wet tabletop. Then I had to leave for work. Which wasn't so bad. I bought asparagus outside Southwark station.
It feels like I'm in another country. Perhaps because it's sunny, perhaps because I don't have much to do. But sitting in the shade south London station platforms all look like foreign towns.
I went to see Michael Clark's come, been and gone at the Barbican tonight with a friend.
What else? some friends and I have set up a sewing circle.
I basically like my life at the moment. I like my clothes and I like my interests. I like my flat and I like my friends.
I want to press this moment in my life between the pages of a book. But every day slips away so quickly. I'm so worried about the future- what I'm going to do, you know, for a living.
At the moment I live almost perfectly in and out of libraries and musuems, seeing friends or spending Sunday's at my parents' home.
I'd like to be thinner and I'd like a trendier job. I'd like to have longer left at university. I'd like to have last year back and to not be chased by depression like a bad debt.
I can't remember how it was I wanted to die. It wasn't long ago- weeks, months(?)- that every time a train arrived I wanted to jump in front of it. I suppose there's continuity of the cells of your bones and hair and teeth and skin and all that (I think that it's over the course of seven years your cells replace themselves completely- which is the same time a broken mirror brings you bad luck). But whoever it was that wanted to die or unlive or whatever, even though I wrote it, I think she's different to the girl writing now. Memory, continuity, experience- we're all in the mind.
If someone else logged into this account - a stranger - and wrote a diary here then it wouldn't be so different to what I'm doing writing now in the diary I started when I was 17. I only remember her, or think I do.