Moon in Aquarius.

The weather today has been rubbish. Shrouded by shimmering heat and viscous humidity, tormented by a fashionably guilt-provoked decision against switching on the A/C, and bullied by unrelenting rays streaming through west-facing windows (real estate has never been one of my parents' strongest points); I spent most of the afternoon lying supine, a human star against faded chequered cotton sheets, eyes focussed on glowing dust particles frozen in mid-air. When even reading became impossible, all I could do was think.

I have a secret to confess: I believe in astrology. Not that I use it to determine my daily schedule or divine the future, but I do spend a lot of time reading about it on the internet and drawing comparisons with my reality. In many ways, it's like having an online psychotherapist, or a virtual support group.

The first thought that gained form and emerged from the dense fog of my mind, was that sitting for the CFA really won't do much for what I want to do with my life. I have no attraction to the world of finance. The only career option I'd consider which would benefit from studying for the CFA, would be one in ethical investing (and then that's only to make up for all the earth-unfriendly money-hungry evildoings I've been forced into by The Sore).

The second thought was, what the hell is it that I want to do with my life? If I had to answer that, I'd say "travel the world". Then I recalled the hot Scottish architect - in whom I had confided that architecture really was my first choice but then the overwhelming desire to get out of The Sore led me to study economics instead. His response was something trite like "if that's what you really want to do then you should just do it".

But I'm not about to devote another five years of my life to studying for another degree, then starting from scratch all over again. And truth be told, it wasn't architecture per se that appealed to me, it was its implied promise that my work would allow me to create something beautiful. M and S were right - I used to be pretty good at art and stuff back in high school. But I wouldn't consider myself an artist. I haven't got a definitive style, as an individual I'm just not quirky enough, and my childhood hadn't passed the "fucked up" bar that so many other so-called artists' have.

The third thought was, I really REALLY want to move my arse to Aus, possibly for good. Maybe get a job with one of the numerous commodities houses there (although I expect that it would be terribly competitive). But that won't be for a few more years. First, I'll need to save up loads of cash (which becomes quite easy when one gives up luxuries such as "a social life"), gain more experience, get all my traveling desires out of the way, etc etc.

The only logical conclusion now is to wait. Hopefully I can preserve myself well enough in the meantime to look as fresh as a 25-year old once I'm out of it.

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I give up on trying to figure out the lines spacing on this blog. Just take it as me exercising my artistic license to create varying depths of nothingness in between excerpts of my life.

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How bizarre.