I’m just writing because I feel the need to talk to someone. Not that you are some sort of a last resort. The phrase “last resort” reminds me of Breath of Fire. Are you familiar with that?
It’s a scorching hot day where I am now. The family dog just broke my room’s window and almost killed me. I’m sleepy, cranky, and alone. At least I got my icy treat right here.
It’s been a while. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I quit writing like it’s a bad habit. I do keep a few notes here and there, on my smartphone mostly. I’ve been all over the place. I can’t seem to get myself organized.
On second thought, that sounds like a gravely horrible excuse.
I know, I know. If only I spent less time on auto-pilot, I’d get things done. But that’s easier said than done, we all know that. There’s something oddly satisfying about just being lazy, not having to think too much, wasting time.
If only I had more drive.
When you think about the grand scheme of things, the universe, how little each of our existences are, it becomes hard to take anything seriously.
Why are we here? What are we doing? What are we?
How I wish I could build a time machine to experience life when Victorian dresses were a part of daily life, when things seem a lot more… formal. A lot more black and white. A lot less freedom, and therefore, a lot less confusion of who we all should be.
I long for — I desire things I cannot have.
I spend way too much time pondering questions I’ll never know the answers to.
That’s just who I am.
I’m comfortable. Not lonely but not happy. What’s more, I have no feelings about that either.
I’m just a tiny speck of dust in this space of stars and void.