It's 16.06, I spent a long time printing pictures for my uncle to take back home with him and show to the rest of the family.

I guess it's good that I'm going to watch a movie, it will minimise the time I have to spend talking to people because today is not a good' social' day for me. That really means I won't be much of a 'joy' to be around because I don't have the strength to wear my social mask... The mood is brooding and dark.

I went down the shops earlier and on my way back home, just as I was crossing the quiet street leading to my block, two young kids called after me to ask me the time. One quick glance over my shoulder told me these two weren't older than 10 years old. I stopped in my tracks and said: "It's 2pm." The littlest one who was wearing thuggish clothes came closer and said: "You're rich!" before giving me the most cheeky of grins.

I'd expected a "thanks" or a "cheers, mate", but not that weird comment to be honest. I smiled back at him and resumed my walk back home without another look back, simply chuckling to myself.

Then I sat at my desk, lit up a cigarette, tried to jot down some thoughts... but those were stuck. I opened my browser and decided to read The Bet by Chekhov. I find it hard to believe I never actually read anything from that writer until today. Maybe the fact of reading it affected my mood somewhat. After all, I've known for some time now that my mind acts like a sponge soaking up styles and emotions especially in writing.

The first time this happened I was 13 years old and reading Rimbaud. I remember it was past midnight when I felt that first intense wave of emotions rushing through my brain as I read the poems... Then I picked up a pen and paper and words began to flood out of me as though my own hand had taken a life of its own. Reading back what I wrote, I realised that I had 'copied' Rimbaud's style, albeit clumsily of course. I had written my thoughts inspiring myself from the style I'd just soaked up.

It was in class while having to analyse literary texts that I further realised how much of a 'sponge' I was because every time I read a text that contained emotions and strength of some sort - be it in style, or the choice of words themselves - I would feel the words so intensely that it felt as thought I was somehow reaching deep into the dead writer's head. As impossible to explain as this occurrence may seem, that is exactly how it felt.

My analysis of literary texts was invariably marked down by teachers because I 'went too far and explained things that, although right, were not part of the brief'... The other pupils would readily parrot what they could obviously draw from a writer's thoughts, and I was always feeling something much deeper that nobody wanted to hear because... it just wasn't part of the curriculum, I guess.

I want to take a knife and carve a hole in my own skull. Then I want to stand in front of a mirror and take out my brain piece by piece and observe it.