IW:
A friend of a friend was an artist, a talented one. He killed himself. When I asked someone who knew him, they said that it was because he had become overwhelmed by fate of humanity.
This blog is not doing me any favours anymore. I can't wait until the end of the year. How paradoxical that I should also have problems with it, technically, in these last cold, short days of December.
Next year, I will not read a newspaper or a magazine or listen to the radio.
I will observe what I learn of news byond The Valley without making any effort to inform myself. I can't wait.
And I'm not sure I'll ever pick up a newspaper - if they'll still exist by the time I might want to - or consult a news website again.
This year of paying close attention has exhausted me and I know and think about too much that serves me no apparent purpose.
I remember the old poster from my school days: Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you.
Just because I have these fears for the future, doesn't make me less likely of being correct.
However, my pessimism is affecting others and I have to keep my views to myself.
The lowest day of the year.
Pitch black.
Only the camera and a robotic reflex to record keeps me taking photos.
I hope I'm on the up before Christmas and the end of term on Friday.
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