What am I doing. What do I want. People in their thirties, or twenties even, secure a steady income, marry a spouse, buy a house, raise children, and be content. The traditional concept of pursuing life. Pleasing everyone. And I sitting here typing my usual shitload of junk, glaring into imaginary shapes and movements. I thought of marrying, twice. But nothing would work for me. I mapped things out, applied for three international scholarships and attempted a national one. Nothing worked. Perhaps it's Fate. Or pure laziness. Lack of intention. Not sure what sounds right anymore. I have no need to interact or to converse. I read. I study Life. I write in between empty daydreamings. I looked for jobs as Sanity struck. Then I am too proud to lower my worth into their merciless capitalism and racist resolution. What works, what is there to do. I loved a game. They took it away from me. I waste my time accordingly. But Life — Life makes no purpose for me. Rest. Rise. Coffee. No ambition. No interest to impress. I adore my unrealistic approach to everything. There is nothing to change about me. Most self-involved. I see myself dead. And Death turns tricky. Hunger and thirst. Mind weary from the loss of hope. Body aging into seclusion. Desires bleached. Nothing but Vagueness.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014, 8:15 PM –
Thursday, September 18, 2014, 2:42 AM