The Fruits of a Whim.

I sometimes wonder how I would feel if I suddenly won or was given a large sum of money (or even if my novel were to be published by a mainstream publisher and became a best seller and so I sort of earned it.) I don’t think I would feel anything because I don’t know what I would do with it, and that’s because I can’t think of anything to buy with a large sum of money that I actually want.

I suppose it’s because I don’t seem to be interested in anything any more (apart from the sensation I get when I walk in a quiet wood and feel half convinced that there are invisible beings around me, and then question whether I would really like to see them and connect with them because they might be nasty and fierce and want to cause me Pain and Distress.)

Occasionally I read lists of interests in other people’s blog profiles and think: ‘Nobody could be interested in all those things. They’d burst.’ And then I hear a disembodied voice say: ‘Just because you have the intellectual range of a teaspoon…’

I think part of the reason for all this is the fact that, in spite of the assurance given to me by the medical profession that I’m doing just fine and can carry on living, I don’t really believe them. I still think I’m probably dying, and so there wouldn’t be any point in having a lot of money because there probably isn’t the time left to enjoy it (that’s if there was anything I wanted, which there isn’t – except maybe a house in a remote location which was free of neighbours and warm in the winter.)

At other times I don’t think I’m dying at all; rather I think my inherent strangeness is simply coming of age and assuming the role of alpha persona. At such times I imagine I’m becoming a sort of masculine, negative version of Luna Lovegood. But maybe this is a poor analogy because much of the time I just want to go to sleep. When you’re not interested in anything there doesn’t seem a lot of point in staying awake.

And I don’t know why I’m writing all this. It just came to me half an hour ago on one of those things people call a whim. And then I had another sub-whim to the effect that I would like to grace my blog with a picture of a pretty woman. Accordingly, I entered ‘Images of pretty women’ in a Google search with the intention of choosing and publishing my favourite, but I couldn’t find one. They were all wearing make up. Such is the Google mentality.

I did, however, find a song which vaguely matches the indigo periphery of the current mood (and the woman on the cover is moderately pretty in spite of the lipstick) so I’ll publish that instead.