two-oh-two.
thesis. the pressure to produce good work. visas. ice.
the news is filled with terror; i wake up to erratic presidential decisions. i’m in the ‘promised-land’ — i’ve ‘made it’ for 15-year-old-me. 15-year-old-me didn’t know shit. 60-year-old-me will think the same of 25-year-old-me.
two days ago, tanika said i have ‘artistic-potential’. that damned word again — potential. somehow, it always remains potential, as if my brain has the capacity to do good things, but my hands fail to translate it. i’m a walking example of voltage.
watch a documentary on ueli steck; he resonates with man-on-the-moon syndrome. i’m on the moon for old-me, but now i’m looking at mars. there will never be an arrival, i am pursuing a non-winnable-game.
sleep. i try for three hours; it refuses to arrive. work refuses to happen — software misbehaves, time — did i already tell you that there’s too little time.?
i desperately scroll through my phone to find someone to talk to. and then i realize no one will entertain me. twenty-five-year-old arjun doesn’t know how to live, relax, or handle adult-life. god, twenty-five-year-old arjun is exhausting.
how have i not figured this one out yet? i’ve lived with pressure my entire life; so much of it in isolation. how did thirteen-year-old me manage? he knew better; he slept peacefully by 2230.
i try to think back, but can’t recall anything. childhood is a haze. my brain is now filled with useless crap like there are no electrons & practical electronics for inventors — i will never become an electrical-engineer — what the hell am i doing?
in-fact, i will not become anything at all, because i’m not really good at anything.
fuck.
propranolol.
two-twenty-nine.