I live in an unorganised reality, very full of longing, very full of dreams.

I took some time off work today to go down to the beach in the late afternoon. I called S and told him about my six month plan called the Dice Woman. He was super into it.

You see — I often feel out of touch when I talk to people from London or New York because everyone (less so in London, but I feel a lot of corporate pressure there as an identity validator) places an immense amount of value on your career. And it's funny because people are creative but I haven't really heard anyone passionate recently. Just hungry people hustling for "success", which seems to mean Instagram clout and maybe some awards. Are you more interested in manufacturing a story, or living it?

I have these lofty ideas. I'm a hippie at heart, a loosely bohemian thing. I felt so cheesy confessing to S but it's the truth. I feel so far away from it all sometimes while I'm here. He asked me what R did and I couldn't even tell him because conversations here aren't dominated by what people do for work. Work is a thing that you "do", indeed, not necessarily the backbone of your identity or the core purpose of your existence. What a tragic religion we've made out of labour.

And I said that too — that it's difficult to describe myself these days because I can't see anything or anyone, especially myself, in absolutes.

I think other people are more anchored to an organised sense of reality through relationships with their parents and childhood friends and their college boyfriend or whatever. And I have none of that so I find myself here once again, in the institution of dreams. I remember. I remember it all, us as we were, all the previous me's. I am remembering yes, that I can do anything before death.

Anything Before Death