My rational self has taken its toll like a curse, for years and for endless moments on days to end, I keep thinking about things that I should be thinking about - work, what I’d do the next morning, where I’d go tonight, how I’ll empty the well of work that seems bottomless. My preoccupation with the routine of living life, that is, of being routinely 'rational' has eaten all that is supposed to be what artists call ‘creative juices’. I bore myself with writing technical reports, that’s what I do for a living, boring myself, maybe until my last breath. And since I live a very ordinary life, the kind of life that makes me even doubt of my own existence, I do not have anything interesting to write about except maybe, when at sudden bouts of clearheaded drunkenness, I find the world a little bit bearable. Then my diary gets a fair account of my mind.
At long periods of ‘normalcy’, I can’t imagine things and my mind is confined within narrow technicalities of executing tasks in the rigid, mechanical life that I am used to. The mind that should be left to wander traverses the same path everyday so much so that the unfamiliar recesses of consciousness are left idle, barren, unexplored. I can not go back to that road, or at the end of the road as often as I used to, new patches of grass have sprouted, animals scattered all over the place that makes me uncomfortable. It’s like being in a familiar place but seeing different things, different people, something happened and it creates that uncomfortable feeling as if the place have known you all its life and yet treat with the same aloof disregard as everybody else.
