Welcome to the Cosmic Abyss Pt. 2

I have been putting this off, writing anything, because I cannot write. The problem is not just that I have nothing to say anynow, rightmore, but that I cannot write at all. I cannot will words into existing in my head, will words into arriving at my fingers, I am doubtful that words have ever existed in my throat, on my tongue. It is not important to be doing this anymore; it does not make me feel better. I am so, so tired of being here, of being, this is all useless to be typing, to be thinking, I am tired. I cannot focus on anything small to talk about and console myself with: not memories, not breakfasts, not body parts.

My eyes will not focus on blankets, photographs, toes but will only instead slide around the circular peripheral of their sockets as if my sight has been greased with butter. I am exhausted by the motions, the prospect of going through them, of their existence in the same moment in the universe I also exist in: school, nights out, phone calls, lying awake and staring at my ceiling, human interaction, crying in front of teachers, birds, eggs, teeth, tea. I will erase this, all, I think, fear, because this is monument to what? What am I building? I am digging, really. I am not a pilot; I cannot fly; the universe is not mine to describe.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for you.

Today I went to a Sociology-Anthropology potluck lunch in Dokki at the apartment of a professor in the department who I don't know. The taxi driver dropped me off too far down the street and I walked around in the sunblaze with a box of a kilo-and-a-half of foil-wrapped chocolates from the chocolate shop on the ground floor of our building, consulting a handdrawn map I had copied from the internet into a notebook, lost and without my cellphone. I overpaid the taxi driver because I was already nervous and wanted to avoid even the most meaningless altercation, the one where he demands more money than any reasonable person would pay and I refuse and walk away because I am mostly a reasonable person. I found the apartment finally: she greeted me by name warmly, pretty and distinguished in a linen dress with her hair pulled back; she kissed me on the cheek. I felt like a phony. She reminded me of Shahnaz even from the first second and now I know for sure that the universe is watching me and my charade. Too many desserts, cold pizza, agony, introductions, sitting alone in the bathroom for long stretches of time, vowing to try harder. I am not really trying anymore. I am not even pretending to. I haven't written back to my old professors and I cannot bear interacting with my new ones. It is too painful to be their classes, to be in their offices, in their apartments, to respond to their emails, because I do not know what I want, what I want to do, what I think, what I think about what they think, because I am giving up on school, and to give up is to fail them, the ones who have taught me and the ones who I will not let teach me because I am shutting off before they have the chance to, and I don't want to think about that. I do not belong to words and thus I cannot use them anymore, I am forfeiting my write.