My head unfolds, like that of a snake preparing to eat a goat, in an ear-popping yawn. Some annoying mini-beast is burrowing behind my forehead, and hopefully the paracetamol will activate before the glowing white of the screen does me in. But enough about my problems; tell me about yours. And whilst you’re talking I’ll just stare at the walls, hum a tune and think about other things I could be doing.
Of all the things I could be doing right now the best would surely be dreaming pleasantly in a comfortable sleep, rather than forcing myself to write. After every sentence I click back to Google Chrome to read a bit more random information on Wikipedia. It was a big weekend for boxing, what with David Haye versus Audley Harrison at the MEN Arena and Manny Pacquiao versus Antonio Margarito, and I missed it all. I missed Haye knocking out Harrison in the third, with Harrison only managing a single connected punch in the whole fight. I missed Pacquiao becoming the first fighter in history to world titles in eight different weight divisions. The last time I watched a big fight was staying up until 4am to watch Ricky Hatton stumble around like an amateur before finally being decapitated by Pacquiao, live from Las Vegas.
Now I’m inexplicably reading about Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima, a painful tone cluster composition for 52 string instruments, by Krzysztof Penderecki. First boxing, now massive dissonance; it seems my headache is making me focus on pain. The pain of being beaten around the head until I lose consciousness in the centre of a large crowd of shouting people and burning lights. The pain of constant monotonous discord. The pain of 160,000 dead from burns, crushing and radiation sickness.
I fear that if I keep on writing I’ll spiral into disgusting self-pity about how my tiny little head hurts slightly and how the nuclear attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki make me sad. As if it’s all about me. Even though it’s my blog, it’s not all about me. But, you know; what with the headache and the self-pity I can’t help making it about me. Which is stupid. Time to end the stupidity and go to sleep; tomorrow I’ll come out fighting.