Words always seem to fly past me recently. Someone tells me something and I catch only half the words; the other half swallowed by a vacuous rift. Perhaps a different me in a different dimension shall have heard only that half which I did not.
It’s not that I have no interest in what the person is saying, nor is it that the subject matter absolutely bores me. No. It’s just that I feel lethargic, quite as if my mind has no longer the capacity to assimilate external ideas.
As it is, my affliction leaves me without a complete idea of what the person had intended me to know. And as it is, I won’t be able to craft a sufficiently pertinent, interesting and decorous response. I stand there looking dumbfounded. I might proffer a sentence but the idea would not have had the time to develop fully, and so it would come out clunky and abrupt. How many times have I felt embarrassed because of that.
I have also found myself becoming more reticent than usual. I expand a bubble of my own and revel in the abstract solace. My mind drifts to a wondrous reverie where fancy ideas converse with one another, where pride stands at the summit of Mount Parnassus, where that single Corsican star is within my grasp. Perhaps I am simply more a man of letters than a man of spoken words. Perhaps there is something very wrong in my life that needs to be corrected before I can return to my more receptive and spontaneous self.
“Can a girl be so sweet and pure as to turn her pursuants into criminals?”
“Without God, our thoughts are truly our own, and ours alone; and the world all around us shall show them no concern. Is that not terrifying?”
“The writings that astound are almost always the writings that invent new ways to communicate old ideas.”
“I find the dearth in literature disheartening and sometimes even deplorable. But who am I to dictate what should rightly be appreciated? For all I know, I could be blind to the art inherent in financial numbers and business dealings.”
“I tried to speak to you today, but didn’t dare. I feared creating a maze out of nothing; for who would ever want to risk getting lost in the maze she had just escaped?”
“The crossroads of life have never been more confounding than now. One of the road signs say: comfortable life (but it will never fulfill you). Another says: uncertain life (may lead to the ghettos, but at least you did what you like).”
“If I pursued a passion in writing, I would feel selfish. Yet, were my passion to lie in hedge funding or investing or some finance shenanigan, I would have no qualms pursuing it.”
“Sometimes the night is so pleasant, I feel like blending into it. Sometimes, it is so pleasant that I think it such a pity to spend it alone.”