Breaking Glass IV

Anne. I decided that the only viable course of action after last night was to spend what felt like several hours in the shower. Unfortunately it didn't take me enough time so I have a large amount of day to fill.
I start by looking at files. Looking at files to tidy the files. Something should come of it eventually. Although on reflection, it never has done before, so why would it now?
I rifle through some papers to find the ones I collected yesterday morning. It feels worlds away from me but right now I'm feeling mentally dehydrated.
I'm going to read these books until several days have past. I'm excited by the notion of absolute hibernation. History is my future.
I pick up a paper that look suitably time-consuming. Obscure moments in the British timeline analysed in such detail give me great satisfaction to read from - I recognise within the stories a multitude of changed attitudes, everything malleable, everything impermanant. This is what gives me hope for myself, I feel, perhaps, as entire species can change their viewpoint over a series of decades I too could divide this into fractional sections, applying in turn each variation to my own life. This for me means that just as a race of humans changed their way of life over twenty years, the race of me can change my way of life over twenty minutes.
This is when I begin to get excited, and read avidly, attempting to memorise everything. My moments of experience of some kind of joie de vivre are rare, yet invariably related to a sense of wanting to know everything.
I am desperate now to feel that I need nothing in my life except knowledge. Thoughts like last night, when I almost believed for a second that company is what my life is missing are instantly eradicated as I attempt to consume an encyclopedia. The only reason I'd need a real person anywhere near me is to confirm my theories on humanity, learned from these books. When I need to carry out such a practical experiment, there are surely many people I'd be able to observe further.
This theory is attractive to me and I want to cling to it, and I want to keep it, and right now I want to learn it, and right now I don't want to do anything else.
When the light starts to prevent me from reading as easily is the first time I move. The winterly premature sunset persuades me to turn on a light, and here I'll stay for hours more. It's only five thirty. I feel stronger, I feel like the emptiness that what last night was an attempt to fill has finally been eradicated through what I always needed in the first place, no addiction, no physical vice, no psychological aftermath leaving me shaking and confused, just facts, truths about humans that can't be disproved because the people writing them are people like me. People unsatisfied with the charlatan nature of displayed emotion, the forever moveable thoughts and opinions of people. And these things are irrelevant because this is pure, this is thought, this is information.
At this time, this person thought this.
In this place, this person did this.
When this happened, this person reacted like this.
No lies, and no change, because when they change that's documented too. I'm sure this is perfection, I'm sure this is what I need.
Furthermore, there is every other aspect of what I'm studying.
The research into how unhuman a human can be. The science of how to change the entire world. Tiny moments of humility in a masterplan for a planet populated by anti-people people.
I still can't decide if it's all the same to me or not. Sometimes I'm involved, sometimes I'm the martian observing the comedy and tragedy from miles and miles away. I'm never sure which I prefer. It's only on occasion that I adore the small moments of feeling that 'this is how most people feel everyday' - mostly I think I have to be grateful for a certain objectivity I can claim as an ability, a slightly positive attribute to my character that is seemingly deficient in any other virtue.
I'm going to climb into this world and viewpoint, I'm going to climb in and drop my ladder on the other side. Average function becomes secondary, necessity becomes warped and a mangled idea, suddenly cloudy looking and alien to me. The otherworldliness settles around me and the formerly almost clinical-seeming budget lighting softens to a warm glow in a dusty library a hundred years ago. I integrate myself into a relatively old portrait gallery, depicting figures of history that a figure of history to me studies relentlessly, his approach to life is that he must better himself to become one day, a portrait on this wall, best features highlighted by clever lighting, oil paints realising an expression that sings pompousness to the viewer yet explains that his level of success is not impossible to achieve. This autodidactic approach is in turn passed to me, I like to picture it as an heirloom, my new, fabricated ancestry, giving me the knowledge of scholars. I have to lie to these ghosts, tell them I'm not female, because if I were I wouldn't be able to learn this. And so it is here that I become my ideal.