I googled – ‘how do you know if you are dying’. I can’t tell if what I read is happening. Maybe not yet. I am tired and it feels bad. There is pain. I am tired of going to the hospital. Procedures that break you just that bit more. That you can’t take back.
I am sleeping badly. D and I were just offered a book contract. The manuscript is due in October 2018. Is this meaningful still? I went over the terms set out in the email. Crap deals for academic authors. Off putting prices. Devalued work. A barely euphemised contract of exploitation. I used to be angry about this. No. I am still angry. I just don’t have the energy to fight it. Or maybe I just can’t compensate by loving the project. Too much is in the way of love.
I ask how I can write a book when I can no longer type properly. Or concentrate. It seems like a stupid fantasy. Or a lie.Why keep telling it.I used to want to write this book. I keep archiving and taking notes. Maybe that means I still want to. Is not letting go the same as affirmatively going for something?
I said and keep saying I don’t believe that there is anything more. I told my parents, when they said I have to not lose hope that I have come to the end of hope. I upset them and I felt bad. But seriously. It is clear that that hope can’t do anything for me now. Or maybe it can. I don’t know. I no longer understand what hope is. Or remember what it feels like.