I hung onto the bar and fought against giving up. I told myself I could do 3 more and did. After the last pull up, I fell off the bar and crouched on the floor with my eyes tightly screwed shut. At the same time, my family were laughing at that chinese serial that plays every night at 9. It felt absurd to have the two moments together. As if laughter should knock on my door before barging in.
I am plodding through temple of dawn. The endless description of the scenery in india and thailand is boring me, as are the descriptions of hindu mythology – hindu gods, samsara, reincarnation. I think I only get good chunks of reading or writing done when I am supposed to be doing something else, such as right now.
Every now and then, I am swept up by some enthusiasm to do something "good" for myself. The weights, guitar, juggling, Nanowrimo, crossfit. A few days ago, I thought I would pick up the KJV bible on my shelf.
I remember dreaming of shooting at stuff. I’m not sure if they were zombies or not. There was a sense of gradually being overrun by hordes of whatever they were, and I remember distinctly seeing some bullets in the light. This was before the paintball and no, I have not been traumatised by the events on sunday. But there wasn’t any real sense of panic. In my dreams, I usually feel like a detached observer.