Midnight Thoughts: Of Cheese, McEwan and other unrelated things

Let me tell you about a time during the night when there's a heaviness in your stomach, in your gut. You wonder if it's the cheese you've eaten a couple of hours before fully knowing cheese isn't a good idea at night. You should know better, in a few years you'll be a "doctor" and doctors should know better. Anyway, it was once in a while kind of thing not the end of the world, you tell yourself wanting to figure out what's weighing you down.

So you go back to the heaviness in your gut. You let one more hour pass and decide maybe the cheese is only a contributing factor. There are other things. For instance, your indecisiveness. How you don't take a stand for yourself and tell those around you "this is me and this is how I'm going to be", and believe me with enough assertiveness they'll accept it and won't think you selfish in the least bit. At least I hope so.

Another issue could be the dead bodies you're dealing with 4 days a week. Now I'm sure they're doing us a great favour yet when you're staring at the body, at whatever exposed of part of him/her. You think in terms of muscles, this person used these muscles to get on his knees to propose to his wife (the dead bodies are American hence the Americanised thought) or perhaps he buried his own son with them. That's quite a dark unusual thought, my brain could have instead imagined the simple every day acts of "eating, drinking, sleeping, walking, etc." Yet that was my train of thought, one can't help it sometimes. There's also the spy novel you're reading, wishing an atheist author would adopt you (the thought which gets you a disapproving comment from your sister which you reply to saying you'll convert him or mutter that you'll probably get kicked out in a matter of a few hours that is if you were lucky enough to get in his house in the first place). Your thoughts are of course far-fetched but a reader can dream, exactly when this spy novel has an avid reader as a leading character. Maybe you were better off living in a hostel, smiling at strangers you'll share the place with and might get to know well with time than being adopted by an author. They say writers should only be read and not dealt with because that might ruin whatever thoughts you had of them in the first place. Who would want a childish 20 year old medical student worried that she had cheese at night when she knew better?
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Silence

You don't understand my silence. I thought with time you would. I had a firm belief you'd give my silence space to grow then shrink on its own. Yet you want to crush it into little pieces, you present your loud personality and expect me to "let it go".

I won't explain, please don't make me. If words were my friend at the moment they wouldn't leave me this silence. I am left with hurtful things to say, I will say things I regret.

If it was the other way around, I would respect your statue-like silence, your aura wouldn't leave me any other choice but to submit while I struggle to have you leave my silence in peace. You don't know that I leave myself no time to think things through which is why I have these sort of days. I pick up a book, my kindle, start a conversation or at best sit idly (the idle state includes my mind). I choose to dwell on other people, other places, other things. I leave my here and now somewhere else, on a parallel universe if that's possible.

I want peace. I really do. And my words may pass your ears by as if they were spoken in a foreign tongue. Words are deceiving anyway. But my silence... you don't have to understand it, just give it a few grains of respect.

I am

I'm often told I'm mature. I like to think I'm still a kid, and use that as an excuse. I can't get by without books. Classics are a passion for me. I can read pretty much anything as long as it's fiction. I can't stop myself from buying books. I don't re-read books. I have a guilt complex. My smile is a sort of grin and I don't think people smile as readily as they should. I don't understand sarcasm. I'm allergic to all kinds of smells (except for food, maybe). My family will always see me as the kid who needs looking after. I've been to 6 countries and I've lived abroad for most of my life. I ask the silliest questions. I own a guitar, learned for 2 months and now it's abandoned. I'm boring. I sometimes live on twitter. I think it's among humanity's finest inventions and takes the concept of wasting time to a whole new different dimension. I have a complicated relationship with facebook. I absolutely adore blogs. I hate the assumptions people make about you so freely. I don't have a favorite color, book, food, tv show, movie, place, shop. I'm a bit more self-centered than the next person. I write for my personal well-being.  I have a serious fear of being a hypocrite. I admire people's self-assuredness. I face a lot of expectations from those around me. I'm pro at making empty threats. I take what you say to heart. I'm clueless and a broken-record. I'm an annoying optimist. I want so much. I don't expect that much from myself. I live in my head and it's not so healthy. There can be so much good in people without them having the faintest idea of it. I hate those who give themselves airs for all the wrong reasons, not that it's ever ok to have airs. Friends, the TV show, makes me laugh hysterically. I can't do anything alone (I have a twin sister, it comes with the job description). I will blabber incoherently if given the chance.