So I wake up. It’s not raining but I feel exactly like the main character in my short story “Commute”. I’m burnt out. I can’t find the energy to just let go of all this pressure, and I’m slowly being eaten by it. It’s a strange feeling very familiar to me; it happens every once in a while. It just never feels right.
This is one of those days where I’d like to just sit down at my desk, and look outside, seeing the fields all around me, like when I was a child. I miss the smell of freshly cut grass. I’m being nostalgic now. Great.
How could I miss the scenery of my childhood so much? This is the place where I felt safe, and where I gave birth to all my dreams. I would run through the fields, my cat following me close behind, up to this little hill where I sat on a rock and looked at the sky, losing myself in it, and taking over the world with my vivid imagination.
I miss that so much. The concrete of this jungle will never make me feel like that. So funny that I’ve never felt so alone despite being surrounded by millions of people. I’m strong but today, I’m weak. I guess that’s the irony of life.
The Manicheans 