Being almost a year since the last entry, and the contents of that year I will here highlight. Why haven't I written earlier, you may ask? Because, frankly, there's nothing to write about. But I'll write about it here, now, because I'm in that rare mood to write. Or, at least, the mood has become rare nowadays.
So let us start where I left off. I said in my last entry that writing has almost lost its luster. Well, it has. I wrote almost endlessly for days upon days during my initial residence in my apartment, as I had nothing better to do. I wrote about countless topics, so many that I grew bored of it. I was already beginning to feel this way when I wrote my last entry, but not long after that, less than a week, I imagine, I set down the pen and didn't write anymore. Not that I didn't want to write anymore, but rather that I didn't have anything left to write about (or, to be more accurate, I convinced myself there was nothing left to write about). So the boredom that I wrote about in my entry entitled 'On Boredom' grew worse than ever before, and I passed the days away by merely thinking about things.
What did I think about, you ask? Well, anything. It wasn't exciting, nor a particularly good way to pass the time, but I had nothing else to do. You see, I can't do much, what with my hands and all. I refused to write anymore, and I decided unconsciously that there was nothing left for me to do but sit and think constantly. I slept often, but my dreams were dull and gray. I fell into what one might call a slump, and I still haven't recovered.
The only other activities besides sleeping and thinking that I did in this past year were reading and eating. In this time I almost exclusively ate the bread and cheese that my landlady got for me. Sometime in winter I stopped paying her for it, not because I wanted to stop, but because she wanted me to. I didn't like it, but I agreed. The reading, like the writing, has been losing its luster. I must've read every book in the Scholar's Stair twice over, but the books that I used to love I now loathe to read again.
I've completely stopped socializing, with the exception of my landlady, who merely does business with me and moves on. All of my friends that I've met over the years have fallen by the wayside. Are any of them still alive? Who knows? Not me, that's for sure. Do I care? I'm not completely sure myself. I certainly don't feel any worry about them, but then I don't really feel much at all these days. In any case, I think I can confidently say that the Bandits from the North are a dead organization. There is nothing left in them. I have oft wondered whether I was still a member, because frankly there's nothing to be a member of anymore.
Sometimes I've thought about dying. I can't deny, dying seems like an okay idea. But I'm certainly not going to kill myself, why would I do that? I'm the only person who ever agrees with me. No, I need to go out more, so that I can finally just get myself killed. It's grim talk, maybe, but really, what would you do? My life has been gradually ruined over the past year. Ever since I met Carlsson, I've been on a downhill spiral. I've associated with the wrong people, and I've been punished dearly for it.
I hope now that, whoever finds this book when I inevitably die, learns here a valuable lesson. That's all the good I'll ever be able to do. I'd write more, but there's nothing left to write about, and the mood to write has left me again. I expect I'll pick it back up again in a couple months or so.
((If you're interested in being the murderer of Barny Stonecrop, please message me. I'll try to get back to you eventually.))
