Eighth day.
I woke up earlier than usual for food preparation as guests were about to come, but they canceled at the last minute.
I ate some porridge but it had too much-clarified butter, which made me sick as hell.
I searched for some books to read.
I went to the tailor to get some skirts resized.
The roads were at an impasse.
I brought some ice cream. But I don't think I can eat them.
Searching for the works of author - Blythe Baird.
At first, I thought it was the porridge, but I have been feeling too much agitation. In my head. Which has created a cavernous black pit of despair in my stomach. Like a semi-dormant volcano of anxiety. Charring my variety meat. Roasting my mind until my tender mother is blistered. Stiffening my ventricles and hardening my valves until the blood stops pumping. How do I stop this? How do I stop my fears from grilling my happiness? How do I stop my angst from charbroiling my peace?
Today’s mood: dreadful, malaise and tormented.
- Oizys.