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?