#the library keeps sending me emails about how it's overdue I KNOW. I KNOW

[bornuntohimself]

gazing longingly at the half finished copy of rhythm of war on my desk that has not been touched in 2 months. someday we will be together once again

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Ilya at uni

Ilya’s first day at University. Let the murder mystery begin.

taglist: @orchidscript @ashintheairlikesnow @vickytokio

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The university’s library smelled of dust and knowledge.

Silence had settled over its second floor and nested between countless bookshelves. Even Ilya’s footsteps were quieter here, muffled by the carpeted floor. Grey and stained by feet and time.

He hastened past bookshelf rows, head held high to scan the polished plates mounted to their tops, cultural history, social anthropology, philosophy and gender studies, until he finally found ‘academic studies of ritual and magic’.

It was a small section, consisting of only two shelves tugged away into a far corner at the end of the enormous room, but Ilya felt like he had discovered the Alexandria of magic itself.

Old tomes and new textbooks towered above him, nearly reaching the plasterboard ceiling on their overstuffed wooden planks. They creaked softly under the weight of wisdom and Ilya’s heart jumped at the sight. A little butterfly tingle unable to stay contained behind ribcage bars. The feeling prickled down his arm and made his fingers dance, like pianist hands playing the tune of his heart into the air.

Something close to a content hum escaped his lips and his dark eyes lit up, filled with questions that burned to be answered. His gloved fingertips traced over spines imprinted with the most wondrous titles.

‘Potions for dummies’, declared one, or ‘Candles and cauldrons’ read another. A deep green book titled ‘Coole ghoule’ made Ilya chuckle, but what really caught his attention was ‘queering magic’.

He was about to pull it from the shelf when a quiet rustle made him pause.

Hadn’t he been alone on the floor?

After risking an anxious glance into the corridor and finding it, indeed empty, Ilya turned back to the shelf and froze.

There, in the gap between two books, pulsed a glittering light.

A friendly spirit or a sparkling curse, what’re you gonna be?

Twitching fingers reached for one of the books and very nearly dropped it as a glowing moth-like creature emerged from the shelves depths.

Ilya’s heart hammered in his throat as he dodged the fluttering flurry of glowing wings and stumbled backwards.

“Lanet olsun! You scared her off.”

An angry voice shattered the silence like a pistol shot and sent his heart into a rabbit-quick frenzy. Blood rushed in his ears, leaving him light headed. Numbness prickled up his fingertips, spread over his palms. He rubbed the inside of his leather gloves, reassuring himself that they were still there, that he still wore them.

“Don’t let her escape.”

His feet followed the command, already three steps ahead of his brain as he raced down the shelf-row.

Ilya and the outraged voice owner bolted out the aisle simultaneously. His boots slip-slided over the smooth carpet. Reddish eyes widened. Flying wisps of black hair ghosted over skin. Black eyes caught his.

Collision. Tumble. Hands hitting hard ground.

Pain shot up Ilya’s tailbone. He hissed through clenched teeth.

“Are you alright?” The stranger's previous anger morphed into worry and Ilya dared to blink up, squashing down the instinct to cower, curl up, apologize or erupt into enmity, jump up and shove them away.

Instead, he found himself face to face with the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Wild dark hair framed a pale face. Black eyes shimmered under prominent brows, furrowed with worry. One eye was framed by a port wine birthmark, spilling over her forehead all the way into her hairline. Full lips broke into a small smile at Ilya’s meek nod.

“Yeah. Yes. M alright.”

She sighed and her roman nose wrinkled as smile turned sheepish grin. “That’s a relief.”

She thrust her hand forward and the camera strap of an antique looking polaroid nearly slipped off her shoulder. Ilya got up, pretending to dust off his pants in way of refusing her hand.

“Sorry.” He started. “About that, uhm, about scaring off the-”

“Flasher.” The girl grinned. “And don’t worry. Won’t be too hard to find a flying flashlight flattering about a library hall. I’m Ranja by the way. You’re a freshman, right?”

“How do you- Is it that obvious?”

Her eyes flickered down to his feet. “The library layout fell out of your pocket.”

Ilya scrambled to pick it up with heating cheeks.

A burgundy ankle boot scraped it’s tip over the carpet. “Not to pry, Mr. freshmen, but are you starting in magical studies?”

Apprehension grew in him like rose thorns, pricked and pierced inside his throat. Words wanted to break out. To sting. All he let escape was a brusque: “What’s it to you?”

Ranja’s eyes held a knowing twinkle. She readjusted the camera strap without once looking away. “I merely thought getting to know a classmate would be nice.”

“Classmate?” Ilya breathed. Exhaling all wariness. “Does that mean- Are you a- Are you magic, too?”

A smile split Ranja’s rose-colored lips. “I was one of the first on campus. I started here last year.”

“Last? But this is this mayor's first ever semester. Or… isn’t it?”

“The first official, yes. Me and twelve other witches gave the Chancellor a, let's call it a hint, that the official establishment of this mayor was long overdue. And a proper library section. Most of those books were strewn all about the building. Self studying was a nightmare.”

Ilya stared, a little awestruck, down at her. Dust particles danced in the afternoon light, filtering through half closed blinds. One landed on Ranja’s cream colored sweater, tucked carefully into a brown plaid skirt. She quirked a bushy eyebrow. Expectantly.

It’s getting creepy, idiot. Stop staring. Say something! Something smart.

“That, uhm-” He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Neat.”

Smooth.

Part of Ilya wished for the carpeted floor to crack open and swallow him whole. Deep deep down into the depths of hell, to self-deprecate in peace.

“Neat.” Ranja repeated, chuckling. “Neat indeed.”

The only thing keeping Ilya from turning on his heel right then and there was his insatiable curiosity, winning over his humiliation. Dealing with the latter came way more naturally to him than stomping out the former. It’d started to simmer and lick at his guts the second Matthew had shoved his phone with the university course offers under Ilya’s nose at dinner, last winter.

He inhaled, long and deep, in through his mouth and forced it out through his nose. Like Doctor Ahmadi had taught him. His face, almost, almost, stopped burning.

“So, uhm, you- Here- That means-” Ilya buried his hands in his pockets, hoping to conceal him pinching his leg. The short sharp stab of pain turned into a soothing warmth on its way through nerve pathways up to his brain, where it got his words in order.

“There are really so many of us?” he whispered, reverently.

“Fithteen and counting.” Ranja nodded. She stepped forward, tilting her head. Black eyes searched his. “You haven’t met many of us, have you?”

Ilya shook his head, unable to stand her gaze any longer. He felt like a fish, gutted and on display, squirming under the knife of sudden vulnerability, cutting him so achingly obviously open.

“Us.” It was a whisper, a grasp for reassurance, for realization, spilling from his lips.

Us. Us as in more than one. More than a solitary part. More than an outlying anomaly. Us. Us as in a part of a whole, a group. However small. He wasn’t alone anymore.

Only spoken into existence, did it feel real.

“Hey there. Are you okay?” That tender tone of hers startled Ilya back into his body. He felt the fluffy fabric of his t-shirt, the heavier grey cotton of the pullover over that, the heat accumulating between soot black skin and leather gloves, and rasped: “Yeah. Sorry. Just, uhm, just tired. Moving across the country and all, ya know?”

“I can imagine. Hey, I don’t want to hold you up. But- We’re searching for new course committee members, and-” She dug a small white notebook and a pen from her skirt pocket, flipped it open and began to scribble something down. Tongue between teeth. She ripped the page out in one swift clean motion. “If you're interested or need any help finding your footing here send me an email, okay? We sure as hell can use all the help we can get.”

“I’llthink‘boutit.” Ilya murmured, folding the paper carefully in half before pocketing it.

He turned, hastily waving goodbye and rushed down the stairway, all four floors of it, skipping over sets of free steps until he hit the bottom and ran out the building. A stupid smile plastered over his face all the way back to his dorm.

Who would have thought that something as light as a piece of paper could carry every hidden hope, every forbidden dream he’d dared to dream beaten and bruised and alone in the dark?

It sat, indescribably heavy, in his pocket, a tactile reminder on every step. For the first time in a long time, Ilya’s heart was weightless.

[breaktimewritings]

Warmth II Chapter One

Admitting to Jefferson that he’d never felt the warmth of a woman was not the worst thing Gold could have done...

(( I have no idea where this came from but it’s 1am and it didn’t leave me alone until I wrote it so here’s the first chapter out of two or three most likely. This chapter is rated M. Next chapter will be E. ))

AO3

“No.”

“You were the one who--”

“Absolutely not.”

Mr. Gold’s tone was firm, giving no room for argument. The other man only chuckled as he leaned against the display counter in the pawn shop. Really, he should have known to expect this sort of push back, but Jefferson Hatter was often considered mad, and so he continued to press despite the most powerful man in town glaring at him from across the counter.

“I thought you’d be interested is all.” Jefferson said, sliding the business card he’d produced back towards Gold. “You were the one who mentioned it the other night at the bar.”

“After four glasses of scotch and three shots of whiskey.” Gold shot back. “I’m not interested in prostitutes, Jeff.”

“When I told you I knew some girls I didn’t mean like that. She’s not a prostitute.” Jefferson defended. “She’s just part of the group I know. They all use pseudonyms to keep things simple and worry-free so they don’t have to deal with the judgemental stares. There’s even a contract they write up if that makes you feel better. No strings ever attached. She’s just a girl who would rather remain anonymous and enjoys--”

“Absolutely not.”

Jefferson sighed, giving his signature top hat a twirl in his hand before shrugging. “Alright, Gold. Suit yourself.” He slid the business card closer to the other man, though. “In case you change your mind. I think she’s be a good fit for you.”

The bell above the door rang, bidding Jefferson farewell in a much more cheerful tone than Gold’s venomous glare. He groaned, running his hand through his hair as he all but collapsed into the small chair behind the counter. He should have never let it slip that he was still a virgin, let alone to Jefferson. He should have known better. But he’d been lonely and drunk and admitting that he’d never felt the warmth of a woman wasn’t the worst thing he could have admitted to Jefferson. Still, he hadn’t expected his friend to remember that fact, much less act upon it.

His eyes fell on the business card before him. On the front was Jefferson’s usual contact information, but the back had someone else’s contact information entirely. In neat blue ink “The Beauty” was written out, with an email address he could send a message to. The name must have been a pseudonym, as Jefferson had explained, and Gold found it a tad presumptuous. He wondered if it was the woman who called herself that or if it wasn’t one of Jefferson’s nicknames. Jefferson had a nickname for everyone, including this group of friends he had Gold presumed. He’d insisted that none of them were prostitutes, and Gold assumed they had to be clean. He might have been a virgin but he’d certainly learned about STD’s and the like from the small bit of school he’d attended.

Gold sighed, turning to begin closing the shop for the day. It was early, but no one was coming by. It was rare that anyone came into the pawn shop to actually browse or buy any of his inventory. No, the shop was the den of the most ruthless man in Storybrooke. It was as off-limits as a dragon’s hoard. People only came when they needed to pay rent or deal for something. Deals were his specialty. Shopping never happened. Conversation never happened. Touch never happened. Never had. He was a cruel miser with a limp and no heart. And if no one had touched him in over fifty years, why would this...business card woman be any different?

The bell over his door chimed again as he exited the shop, locking it for the night and slipping the key into his jacket pocket where the business card he still hadn’t tore to pieces like any sensible person would weighed heavily. He’d go home, take a hot bath, and then a cold one. He’d find release in his hand as always and that would be that.

“Closing early, Mr. Gold?”

The voice made him tense. Her voice always did. Not in an unpleasant way, however. Isabelle French was one of the two people in town who were never unpleasant. Like Jefferson, the town librarian was one of the few people immune to his reach of real estate, which was most likely the reason WHY she was never unpleasant. It didn’t matter to Gold. She never showed him any sort of distaste. He was always kind. She asked him about his day. She smiled at him. Her eyes were on him, and to him that was all that mattered. It was Tuesday night, which meant she’d closed the library and was currently walking to Granny’s for some kind of ritual with her group of girls.

“Just for today, Miss French.” He explained, turning to walk down the sidewalk to where his car was parked. Or rather, where Isabelle French assumed his car was parked. He always parked behind his shop, a safe place out of sight from the main streets. But if Belle French was walking somewhere, his car was in the same direction.

“Is everything alright?” She asked, her blue eyes holding genuine concern.

His heart stuttered in his chest, and not for the first time he loathed his inexperience. How did one begin to speak to a beauty like Isabelle French? The correct answer (or rather, his answer) was that one did not. One listened as her accent flitted over the words and wove palaces out of paragraphs and only chimed in to ask her something that would let her continue that babble.

“My leg is simply sore.” He answered, leaning more heavily on his cane.

“Did you try that magnesium bath bomb I suggested? They’re supposed to help with soreness.”

“Not yet. How was your book club meeting?”

“Oh! It went great. We voted on the next book. Someone actually suggested The Scarlet Letter, which I adored but we have some younger people there and I wasn’t sure if they wanted to end up reading it more than once for…”

And that was all Gold needed. He allowed her to prattle on and on about book clubs and storytimes and the like. She stopped only to ask him the occasional question about his shop, and his answer was always the same. Not short, but not as eloquent as her words. They reached Granny’s far too soon, and just like that, she was soon bidding him goodnight with a smile. She was feeling daring tonight, going so far as to hug him before crossing the street and disappearing into the bed and breakfast. For a glorious moment, Isabelle French was in his arms, holding her to him, and then she was gone, and he loathed the tightening in his pants.

As he turned to walk back to his car and proceed with that night’s plans, the weight of the business card in his pocket grew heavier. How could he possibly write to any woman convincing them to bed him for the night when he couldn’t even talk to...well, Isabelle French wasn’t any woman, but his tongue still swelled in his mouth whenever he tried to speak to her and a simple hug had him already half hard! It was pathetic. No matter how much they enjoyed sex, no woman would…

But then, maybe he had it backwards. Perhaps he couldn’t talk to Isabelle French BECAUSE he was a virgin. He imagined experience made one more confident when talking to the opposite sex. He doubted he’d ever be able to be the confident, suave, dashing man Isabelle French deserved, but perhaps...Perhaps with experience he might could try.

At the very least, he was a few decades overdue for the warmth of a woman, and if a no-strings-attached night could allow him to say more than three sentences to Storybrooke’s perfect librarian. Well...it was worth a shot. Like it or not, he’d have to add sending an email to this business card woman to his plans for the night.

[bossyadvice-blog]

Help!  No one will give me a job.

A librarian hopeful emails:

“I want to work for my local library.  I love to read, I volunteered in my school library as a kid, and I have customer service (retail) experience.  According to the job descriptions for the page positions at my local library, all I need is to be 16 years old to qualify.  I’m way older than that and have plenty of work experience, yet I haven’t even gotten a call after applying twice.  What’s the deal?  I don’t have a ton of overdue books or fines or anything, I seem like a strong candidate, but no dice.  What’s the secret to getting into the hallowed halls of the library?

Thanks in advance,

Reader Rabbit��

Dear Rabbit,

This is the easiest/hardest question to answer.  It’s easy to answer because I’m confident that libraries all over the country suffer from the same problem (?) as all the libraries where I’ve ever worked:  people want to work there!  Like, LOTS of people.  Like, so many people that every job opening is a huge, overwhelming ordeal for the hiring manager.  And it’s hard to answer because that’s the sort of thing that makes it really, really difficult for candidates to address or work around.

On the one hand, you’re right; you do sound like a decently strong candidate.  On the other hand, it’s possible the library is so inundated with candidates, no one’s even getting to your application.  If you get 100 applications and you find five strong candidates out of the first 20 you look at, there’s a decent chance you won’t bother with the remaining 80.  

If it’s any reassurance, I have hired several people who not only applied but interviewed with me more than once.  I can think of one candidate who I interviewed three times before extending an offer.  There wasn’t anything different about her on the third go-round; she simply wasn’t competing with any internal applications as she had been the first two times.  (Is that reassuring?  I know, as someone who has myself been a job-seeker many times, that the prospect of multiple unsuccessful interviews is perhaps not very comforting.)

There isn’t anything I can do to slim down the huge pile of applications that the hiring manager at your library is sorting through, but I can give you a few tidbits for yourself:

FOLLOW ALL THE APPLICATION INSTRUCTIONS.  Failure to do so may get your entire application tossed, because if you can’t follow those instructions, whose to say you could follow your boss’s instructions?  This means include all the documents and pieces they ask for, send or submit it the way they tell you to, format it according to their specifications (if any), and whatever you do, ABSOLUTELY DO NOT harass them about it.  IF the job posting lists an HR person or hiring manager, you can call or email them ONCE to confirm all your application materials were received.  Otherwise, be patient.  You may never hear from them.  That’s sad, sucky life for ya.  Try to remember that everyone involved in this hiring process is a human just like you.  They aren’t trying to ruin your life; they’re trying to get through the arduous task of reviewing 100 applications.  Unless you get an interview, assume you will hear absolutely nothing from them.

Make sure your résumé and cover letter are AMAZING.  The internet is your oyster for resources on these things, but I’m a fan of Ask a Manager for all things résumé, cover letter, and interview related.

 Emphasize your relevant experience.  Don’t just say you volunteered in your school library; detail which specific tasks you did (shelve books? Work the desk? Help run herd on kindergartners?), because the more you already know, the better it will look to the hiring manager.  Don’t just say you worked retail; detail what you did that you think may help you succeed at a library job (help customers find things?  Use a computer system to locate items in other stores? Make displays?  Organize inventory?)

WHETHER OR NOT YOU LOVE READING IS ONE OF THE LEAST IMPORTANT THINGS ABOUT YOU.  I cannot count how times I’ve asked an applicant why they applied or what interested them about the job and they answered with “well, I love to read.”  This is a terrible answer, because YOU ARE NOT INTERVIEWING FOR A READING JOB.  You are interviewing for a job where you will be surrounded by books and readers all day, and you yourself will be doing work... work that does not involve curling up with a book.  Specifically, as a page, you’d likely be organizing and shelving books, pulling requests for patrons, maybe even working the service desk.  But you definitely will NOT be sitting around reading.  It’s great to frame yourself as an enthusiast, but if you’re only applying for the job because you like to read, you’re going to hate the job anyway!  If you get such a question, approach it from a more utilitarian perspective.  “I’ve always enjoyed helping customers, and I thought the library would be a great place to combine that skill with my passion for books.”  See how now the hiring manager will hear “help customers” first and “books” second and “reading” never?  That’s a much better answer. 

Consider slightly-less-great positions.  Does a job at the brand new, state-of-the-art main branch sound more appealing to you than a job in one of the run-down, tiny branches in the ‘burbs?  Are you passing up part-time opportunities in hopes of scoring those sweet full-time benefits?  Are you skipping jobs that require weekend and evening hours?  If one of two similar positions looks better to you in terms of location, hours, or schedule, it likely looks better to everyone else, as well.  The reality is that “starting at the bottom” may not just mean “entry level,” it may also mean working less desirable schedules in less desirable locations.  BUT after you put in your time there, you’ll be exponentially stronger candidate when applying for promotions or transfers than you would have been as an external candidate.  So keep an open mind when considering which jobs you apply for!

If you’re really serious about a career in libraries, do what you can to beef up your resume. Volunteer at your school/house of worship/local library, work at a bookstore, take jobs that give you more experience working with customers, books, and technology.  Become a school-based reader tutor for kids or tutor adults who can’t read.  In the library field, it’s also especially useful to get experience working with REALLY diverse populations--the elderly, the homeless, immigrants, people of poverty, people with mental or physical challenges, non-native English speakers--these are all experiences that will benefit you as a library worker.  And of course, if you have the opportunity to learn a second language (specifically, whatever is most common in your area besides English), then DO IT and make sure that skill is clearly listed on your application materials.  

Keep your chin, keep applying, and let me know when you get the job!

[deut31v6]

170525

I'm so scared. I have books overdue. However, I don't want to email IT and get my library password fixed. I should fix it. I just really don't want to deal with it. Sigh. So many things I don't want to deal with. It seams like before there was room to just get things done. It could be buying birthday presents or sending postcards to friends. There seemed like room and energy to get things done. These days, I'm reluctant to even call my parents. Hardest is keeping up a good spiritual routine. Like this evening, I really want to see myself praying twenty minutes before sleep but I also really don't want to. I figured just writing something would be a good start to writing an entry. Even if it's a sentence. Oh God. Is this in lines with what you would have me do? It doesn't matter what I think might be right. What matters is God's opinion. Among many things I feel draining me is probably the lack of weekends. At the office, there's always two day sof the week to take care of things or be social. Here, even one day of the week seems brutal and guilt enducing. Also at the office, people usually started leaving the office around 530. Whereas here, it seems one should feel guilty for going home to rest. It's silly. In the workplace, people have lives outside of work. People have priorities. However, students ere are either single or divorced. None of them are even really in relationships. Now that I think about it, that might help explain how intense this makes things. School becomes life. It doesn't help one of the tutor tries to guilt us with not spending more hours in the studio. I really believe life isn't about toiling and burning the midnight oil for work sake. I don't know. God, I don't think that is what you want. However, I get so scared being here at home just typing this. I'm so tired of this schoolwork. Perhaps the biggest fatigue is not having a project manager who's solely dedicated in managing the project. This would include time management, delegation of work and also keeping everyone towards the goal. This also includes client and communication management. Instead, !eetings feel like a free for all. In the beginning, I had the notion only way to get things done is try to do everything. This is to be a designer, manager, and architect. However, this project was too bug. Or is it really? Am I calling quits without really understanding what God wants me to understand? Another thing about this project or program is how hard it is when peers become cynical or pessimistic. Some of them introduce such negativity that I don't know what to do. Some of them I feel don't really know how to run an architectural project yet they act like they do. I don't know how to proceed. God, I'm just complaining right now. Please, I pray to write only what you want me to write. Today, at the end of the day, I felt so unappreciated. This always happens when Martin wouldn't look me in the eye when he's talking. Not only this but no one stood up and mentioned about the work I had to show at the meeting. Everyone was content about letting me seem like a loser. Although, in the end, two peers showed some care for my quietness. Oh man. I don't know sometimes how to keep going. I'm scared about the project. I feel that it's slipping out of control and I foresee problems. However, I feel constant encouragement that everything will be good from the Holy Spirit. I keep praying how to see this work. I keep feeling inclined to let it go and let God. I'm so resistant to do this. For one, I'm afraid if I don't try to take control, I imagine few months from now people bitching about not having enough work prepared, or not enough work done. There's also the guilt of being judgemental about last year's students for there lack of success in the course. There is also the guilt of letting my team down. Not only is this project about me but others as well. I don't want to get in the way of other people's priorities. I met with the preacher from the local parish. We met at a small nature centre cafe. It was such a nice place and such a blessing meeting. I feel a longing for it right now. I ordered tea and his preacher came 10 mins later. I opened in prayer then I told him about what I saw as a spiritual problem. Primarily that I didn't have the same fellowship I did in Boston and that the school doesn't provide those things. The preacher responded by three things. He invited me to refill station meeting this June, to which I agreed. Then he invited me to have meal with his family and also Bible study with another brother. I felt all of this were good so i accepted. Ever since, I've been longing to hear about this again but he hasn't e-mailed me back. One other thing that was mentioned was blessing the place one is. This was a surprising thing. While here and in difficulty, I've only focused on what this place means to me. I haven't thought what I means to this pace. Here I can bless this place and people without reserve since we are called to be high priests. Ever since, this idea has been stuck in my head. Of course I haven't been praying for the village or school. However, this such an interesting idea. The notion God brought me here more than to just get an education. What if my presence in this part of the world is a larger purpose even to the local. It's nice to write. I have no idea. It's just nice. I don't know why I don't feel it's outright a spiritual proper thing like reading the bible or praying seems to be. It feels more like running where it can either be done for one's own gain or somehow for God's glory. The latter seems to need much prayer and guidance from the holy spirit. There's a new person working at my school. I've been reluctant to talk to him. He showed a presentation of his CV yesterday and I was thoroughly impressed. However, at the same time, I didn't feel any jealousy but a bit of repulsion. He seems to be the kind of guy that exemplifies what today's culture wants people to be. Self dependant, well rounded, lots of experience and personal diligence. He stacks up to people who I feel is hard to keep up. However, I quiestion what is all this success for? For me, all this is secondary but for him, it seems like everything. And that's what I felt I was left with. I didn't want his life despite his intense portfolio and prestige. I would trade it all for the blessing of a relationship I had with Wellington. God showed so much to me. And the bible study. All of these things i feel the school doesn't understand. Such a weird place to be. I've stopped watching any YouTube. Now that's been more or less established, I feel so bored right now. If I stop writing, I feel Ill have a hard time deciding what to do next. I guess I could pray and go to sleep. I've been trying to figure out whether to sleep 8 hours or 830. I don't know. Anyways, I've stopped YouTube but allowed movies and tablet apps. The other two big things I've stopped is reading the news and Facebook. I've left Instagram and LinkedIn. However, without these, I feel so bored right now. I could continue reading Robinson Crusoe. Perhaps the more responsible thing is to read for my thesis. My hopes is without these stimulus, I'll feel inclined to go outside and take a hike or bike to the coast over the weekends. I might read more, or bake, or many other things. I feel I've been negligent. As of late, I've been slipping in and out of bad habits. Last weekend, because of bad timing and lack of willingness to resist temptations, I feel into my urges for food and games. Thankfully, I didn't stay this way forever but this disorientation lasted. I don't know. I feel so sleepy. One other thing I feel bad about is not having called my parents in the last days. I didn't call them on Sunday and omitted calling them through the week. Now it's getting to a point it's been 2 weeks since I messaged them. Crap. I don't know what to do. However, I still feel strongly this is where God wants me to be. However, I don't want to be here. Sometimes I fantasize about being back in Boston. Why? The office setting of having weekends. All the people I knew. At the office, things feeling organized and less bullshittery. Less people wanting attention and needing recognition. Instead, things were the way they were. Something weird about trintellix I'm taking. It's been really helpful only off days. I don't know if it's improved my sleep or that the medicine is kicking something else in my head to high gear but on my off days, I feel more capable. I find myself connecting dots better, although not perfectly. The weird flipside is how weird I feel on my on days. I feel feel more worried and anxious. I get restless and I become more foolish. I don't want to be as such but I can't help it. God, what is going on? I almost dozed off. I'm sleepy. I want to sleep without praying. However, I really want to pray before sleeping. My spirit is willing but my heart says no. I have great aversion to expending energy unless I'm sure that is where God wants me to do. Even then it's hard. I really want to pray but I don't want to experience the hardship. I'm scared of fighting sleep. I'm scared of feeling difficult and giving up early. I don't like to do anything out of brute self willpower. This I find difficult. Also, I wonder how important evening prayer is. Does it make a difference? Good question because what seems to be an obvious question suddenly I feel out of place. I'm so sleepy I'm going to stop here. Amen.