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Young man's struggle with money, women and literature. |
| During a typical stay in the library, I left my Macbook Pro (just one year old without a scratch on it) in my area on the third floor to go and take out Leo Bersani's 'Future for Astyanax: character and desire in literature' from the first floor. This very narrow time frame of about two hundred seconds was apparently enough for someone to steal my computer, along with my new headphones and escape from the area unnoticed by the surrounding academics that were also studying there. This has me in an indescribable state. Perhaps this is what shock feels like. It was worth over nine-hundred sterling pounds, with many important documents, images and videos that were very personal and important to me. There has always been, I thought, a mutual respect towards each others personal belongings in the library. Everyone leaves their personal items out on display, leaving to go and get a coffee or visit the rest room, with no-one ever going near them. I have left it alone for longer stays than two minutes and returned to find everything as it was. I cannot believe it. Everything gone. Did I really deserve this? Was it my fault? I looked after that machine more than anything else in the world, and after getting thoroughly pissed off with Windows, I was happy to be a Macbook guy for life. All I want to do is buy another one. No insurance and no hope. I hate to break the usual poetic/formal voice of this blog, but I don't think I have wanted to use the following phrase more than I do now: 'fuck my life'. This truly sucks ass. Being a clueless male, I am forced to think of this event as a kind of sign, that I must not be so attached to the material, that this is a test of character and that it is a lesson I must learn. Perhaps I must savour and explore the feeling of writing on paper once again. Before this horrific incident, the visual of a clean and crisp Macbook on my desk was a romantic image, a portal of pure and naked writing opportunity; now the more classic and possibly even obsolete (is it?) image of a pad and pen will reside. Poor handwriting has always prevented me from writing my thoughts down on paper, perhaps in this frustrating time, I have to. I don't know what else to say. Bad day, bad day. |
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