It's nothing really. The magnitude seldom, if ever, seeps into the consciousness; the external turmoil is safely padded by layers of rust and fat.
I used to love, and hope and fear, and feel the joy in living. Now, I feel nothing. There is a burn, steady and uneasy, but no more than that. I often wonder why it must – actually I don't.
The need to conform to a style of writing vaguely nags me, but I endure it, like dozens of others every day. My fear of writing wrong impedes me from writing at all – this must be a writer’s worst nightmare come true; after perhaps the dread of understanding the implications of his own writing.
I do believe everything is a piece of a large montage that will eventually add up; but then I have begun to realise it might be beyond human capacity to see it.
I cling persistently to the thought that another world exists somewhere and that I wouldn't have to get my hands dirty after all. But it seems only a matter of time now.
The more the random real and the Utopian dream rift, the more I find myself being stretched, trying to keep a foot in both boats, deferring the point where I must make a choice by a few more moments.
I have lately often found myself saying – what is there to do in life? I wonder if any among mothers, money or medicines have the answer to it.
I turn within for answers and hit a brick wall. I look outside and get mocked.
The more I learn, the more I am driven inward.
Every time I publish one of these, I sell a part of my soul.
But I do survive, and I will.