Blanks

It’s been a number of days since I’ve last written, and I really ought to start write more now that I’ve been relinquished from the life of a salary-man. But the thing is, I haven’t found anything intriguing or motivating to write about. Everything about me has grown stale and mundane. Nothing excites. I always have to find excitement in places I’d much rather not go – those places are like bubbles of vacuum, you enter one and when you come out, time has already taken a great leap forward.

I wonder what all my other friends are doing. Are they doing anything productive? I certainly am not. All I’ve been doing is mulling around the house, then going to my computer, then to my books, then back to my computer. Sometimes, while in transition, I stop to play catch with my dog. She seems equally as bored as I am.

I had a dream last night that I was back at the internship. There was some event going on, and I saw all the familiar faces traipsing around. And there were my friends too, doing what they always do – though I couldn’t tell what it was exactly that we all were doing, but only feel those same feelings when we did what we did. Memory is such an interesting phenomenon. Someone said, “5 seconds ago might as well be 5 years ago”. There is really no temporal distinction between events in the past. We can say that it happened in a sequence, but that hardly matters. Everything in the past swirls in a reservoir, a directionless ferment; everything is an amalgamation.

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