Conversations with myself

My favourite kind of weekends are the ones where I don’t step out of my bedroom, lay sprawled in my bed, avoid taking calls and get up only to feed my beloved kitten and listen to Regina Spektor all day. If happiness seems to be spilling over, which is rarely the case, I like to inflict a little misery by revisiting Conversations with Other Women, which I plan to do this weekend. 

The film celebrates melancholia, and all that is associated with unrequited love, love that was never meant to be, love that was as transient as a train journey, love that was as finite as a season or a novel, love that was probably just a convenience, love that was curtailed by a phone gone dead, a missed flight, an inflated ego, a myopic vision or laziness. It leaves me with a haunting sadness that is hard to describe.

Then there are weekends when I want to change the world. I want to write a novel, invent an innovative kitty litter box, take a trip, run to the hills, direct a movie and again write.

Write. Write. Write.

But I don’t write. I wallow in self-pity, bask in the glory of unwritten, unpublished novels, watch unscripted films in my head, and my ideas die every day.

And I don’t even mourn.

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