Life is reduced to a series of banalities. Wake up in the morning, shower, brush teeth, have breakfast, go onto the train, enter the classroom, smile at someone you know, wave at another, take out your work materials, have lunch with friends, laugh with friends, tell them you have to go, leave and enjoy the short duration of silence in an empty hallway, go for another class, ask a question so that the professor will notice you, ask about the assignment, leave the class, sometimes with a friend, sometimes without, doesn’t matter, get back on the train…
Attempt at writing something joyful: Today, the sun splashed onto my face, and as I consumed all of the glowing scenery before me, I was reminded of how beautiful life is. Unfortunately, such thoughts are boring. They end as soon as they begin to exist. This is why no good book is ever saturate with joy from the first word to the last – no one would bother reading it.
Perhaps, you are not so kind after all. First impressions are deceiving.
I wish to tell them that I have no wish to be a part of their profession. Yet, I told them, that I would at least try; and if I find that it really does not suit me, then I’ll leave. I told them “No harm trying”, as if to embody such a noble spirit. But I have not even tried and I already feel slight revolt against it. Certainly, you can profit greatly from it, and through your manner of business, be held to a high esteem. But you forget that you are the little percentage of the lot. The rest will always appear to be cunning; employing not firm knowledge and genuine concern to meet with their clients, but an arsenal of contrivances to convince. That is the impression the whole society has of them. We trust our friends, but not the stranger whose main drive is so likely the commission out of your fee. The root of the problem as I see it, is that they call themselves by a more prestigious name than the one people recognize them to be; and that is not so obvious a trigger for suspicion?
You see a beautiful girl pass through the door, and what do you do? You go up to her of course, and pretend that you know her. She looks at you quizzically. Sorry? You pretend to wonder for a bit. Oh no, I must have gotten the wrong person. Then you laugh it off and walk away. She walks away too.
What good is the skill of writing anyway? Anyone can write, and no one will read. Everyone has in their closet a novel or two, which they tell everyone else that they soon wish to publish; that is, as soon as they wrap it up. Anyone can be a writer nowadays. A profession can hardly be made out of such a commonplace skill. Maybe it is no more a skill than the naturalness with which we are able to scratch our finger. You’re a published author? Oh, what a coincidence, I am one too. But it’s really no more than a hobby.
Currently, there is nothing that gives me a greater sense of peace than staring at my dog. There she is, just lying there calmly, not a worry in this world; now raising her brows at the sound of something unusual, now making a grunt and resting her head on her paws. How alluring the idea of being non-rational; of being able to see life simply, and not like this infinite lattice of chaos and confusion.