Cried myself to sleep last night reading the book. Woke up at 5:25am with my phone in hand the screen still lit up on the page I left. Therapist asked me every session if I had managed to cry yet and the answer had been no for the past month and a half—no, it’s always not easy to cry for myself. Yet I cry so much for other people‘s lives.

On my commute to work. Had a breakdown reading Yiyun Li‘s Things in Nature Merely Grow.

There’s some weird comfort that comes with posting private thoughts online. Like publishing a memoir of journal entries. Only less organised and, free. It is an emotional (and intellectual, depending on what you post about) exhibitionist perversion I suppose. Not knowing who and when would see these lines written down that reflect only a fragment of myself for a specific time period, but only the unpredictable possibility of it being seen at some point, is liberating.

Gee. It’s happening again. I don’t know if this is more than friendship but I think I have some strong feelings for a friend.

I think Wim Wenders is a great director, when I allow myself to ignore all his films about/in Japan with this fetish white gaze…

I climb but I’m a lot more, a looooot more interesting than just a „boulderer“. Makes me pity those people who only have this one hobby they build their identity on.

Therapist: have you tried journaling? … Well you are asking the wrong question here. The real question is: How many different types of writing on how many different apps do I journal? Answer is: way too many.