Sunday 10 December 2017

Bluntly, Eating Dirt

If I force myself to write each night, do you think I'll finally become someone I can be proud of? The existence of this blog bothers me. I write neither fact nor fiction, nor anything in between. At times, I see a wasteland of wordly deposit, the kind that environmentalist groups would petition against just because it is an outrage against the value of existence.

Besides classical art memes, mango-flavoured yogurt and surprise chili padi in my chicken at a restaurant with such poor lighting they might as well not have installed any lights at all, the remainder of the day is the pumped nitrogen that keeps a bag of chips puffy.

What I should be doing right now is of course my bloody assignments but as a student in denial, I will pretend that this writing exercise is an investment into what experts term lifelong learning, and what people who try to motivate the demotivated call self-enrichment. If there is a job out there which requires one to come up with excuses, quite plausible ones too, then please consider taking me in. Ah, what about a secretary who lies on your behalf to your spouse while you're away on "business"?  Reicheru would definitely be nominated for the Best Secretary of the Year awards.

Troubling is my lack of talent that could raise the standards of my life. In an ongoing cycle of existential crisis, I imagine myself as a flaming meteorite, screeching throughout the journey which end sees my neck buried deep in the dirt. Naturally, with a mouthful of soil, I'll choke on the physicality of existence. And nobody will ever know because, one: my face is below ground, and two: I'm but a space rock like any other.

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