Whenever something breaks I get mildly depressed. I suppose its worse when my lightwriter breaks, but my chair is now out of action for a while. Dad says, quite wisely, that it is probably best that I don’t use it until it is fixed. This makes this afternoon awkward, however, as I need my chair to get home after my late lecture on Thursday. Esther just leaves me at the bus stop in Crewe, and I get myself home. Therefore I’m considering bunking off this afternoon’s lecture and working on my thesis. Given I haven’t skived in three and a half years, its about time I did so. Its not actually skiving, anyway. I’ll see what Est says; she has a nasty way of talking me out of such things.

It’s ash’s performance tonight. She allowed me to view the final rehearsal on Tuesday, since I was going to be away later, and still might be. Its called the art of suicide, and comes, as you can probably tell, from quite a dark place – a place where I was about 5 years ago; somewhere I left behind and do not whish to return. Its kind of bitter, yet sickly sweet; kind of an obsession with an aesthetic of death. Don’t get me wrong, back then I wasn’t suicidal, just bitter and cynical. I think Ash’s piece tonight comes from this place, which is why I’m interested in it. Mind you part of me is angered by it: what is the point of such a piece? To me, it kind of glorifies it, kind of wallows in self pity; makes suicide seem something other than it actually is. Keep thinking of my friends who aren’t here any more; I counted during the rehearsal – 5, in all, from my class at school. It seems to throw away a life is a waste, a retreat. As I see it, life is too good a party to leave early. Mind you, I can only pass judgement really if I see the full thing tonight.

I’ll let you know what happens tomorrow.