It’s this mediocrity I have surrounded myself in that traps me in ennui. Flighty as my thoughts are, I know that I cannot seriously contemplate a life that I spend ticking off the next rung on this ladder of corporate wisdom. Every single day I spend in a job, I know that a little piece of my soul quietly dies. It doesn’t grumble much, my soul, but it does chafe. How many more years will I look at Fridays with happiness and Mondays with dread? A day has more than 60,000 seconds, or so I read. Multiply that in a week. What can’t change in a second? Everything. And nothing. Yet, I waste them all, while I think of all the things in my reach, and then swat them away because dreams are expensive, and I am poor.
There are times when I think that I ought to write in this blog everyday. But then, I wonder, why make the effort? No one reads this anyway. Why would I want to post virtually anonymous ramblings of mine on a disjointed medium? Surely, there are friends to talk to than a computer? And yet, on days like today, when the weight of a seemingly meaningless world shifts its entire self on you, that is when you turn to the anonymity of a keyboard.