Lately I’m not feeling the urge to write anything. Or rather,
nothing is coming into my mind. No idea is popping up. If one reason is my work
pressure (the entire month of August has been an ordeal) and a sense of
premonition regarding an upcoming change in the work front, then the other must
be the fact that I barely go out these days. My life has become the literal
rendition of a straight line with two extreme points – home and work. Suddenly I
have discovered this new side of me – this absolutely lonely, companionless
side. I guess this is what happens to those who don’t get along with most and lose
the ones they actually like as well. Suits me.
I am at my despondent best when I feel this hollow in my
head. Whatever I write usually comes to me when I’m being quiet and pensive,
which happens to be most of the time. This happens even when I’m working (where
no brain is required, so it can have all the fun of its own). I begin to have
deep conversations with myself inside my head, the arguments get all heated up
and the ideas begin to appear one after another. First a few words, then long
paragraphs. So it worries me no wonder when I am trying to be contemplative and
falling into deep stupor instead.
Although it is not the workload exactly that exhausts me. But
living in a constant state of foreboding does. I am always waiting for my
impending doom and getting tired in the process. People look forward to their
good future; I die inside a little more waiting for the possible conflagration.
Living is a tiresome job. Sometimes I wonder whether it is possible for my life
to get any worse. The answer is always a yes. Well, I can go blind, or lose a
limb. Or catch some terminal disease. So every morning I wake up I thank the
universe for making me live in this moderate state of misery. Life is not
getting any better, but it is not getting any worse either. What more can I ask
for after all?
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