yesterday my bro was so drunk he did not notice he had cut off part of his finger, and lost it. like, really lost it. on the ground.
all the kitchen was full of blood. he refused to keep the bandage on for long enough for the bleeding to stop. i cleaned the kitchen. then i wanted to kill him.
i feel like the foreign legion in some parthia or similar. they expect things. like building bridges or roads or food or sth. but they also refuse to cooperate, in any way.
thus all i am left with is the nothing i came here with.
i cook. i clean. i keep my temper. i try to figure out what is wrong with my mother, because she keeps her illness secret like a partisan. i lack information, so i am unable to make decisions. it does not increase my happiness.
i am tired of lies and hypocrisies and pretence and inability to change anything.
so i go on translating ‘the left hand of darkness’. for fun, not money. probably the translation will be found horrible, too. but i like the book, and i think it should be made part of the heritage in this small, stagnant, nauseating literary society of this nowhere country i cannot leave because it is in my blood.