I turned the computer off some time ago; I don’t know where I found the strength. I wavered for a few minutes before I made up my mind, thinking about all the things I could do on it, such as writing this diary and sending some long-overdue replies to emails; many people will be wondering what’s become of me. But I held firm and turned it off. Now I just hope the tiny monster that lives somewhere in my head, or my gut, doesn’t make me turn it back on.

I know, I know; I shouldn’t divide myself in two like this, trying to find someone to blame (‘The cat broke the vase, Mum’); I need to accept that the person who decides to play games and stay up until dawn is me and no one else. But I find it hard to believe my brain could be so obtuse; there must be some unconscious formation controlling my life. Of course, if there is, it would mean the unconscious formation has grown stronger at the expense of my own self, and even somehow with its tacit permission (or rather – so as not to go on dissociating myself from myself and multiplying my fragments – with my tacit permission).