Life can feel a bit like a treadmill at times.
Which is not the worst thing in the world but it could be better. In fact, this writing could be better. It is terrible to hate your own writing, its a bit like hating your own kid I suppose. For being ugly.
Cause sometimes, no most times, the words just look back at you. Unable to comprehend the hatred, the contempt, the disgust. They just stare back at you, no they don’t. They refuse to meet your eye, they look away. That is what they do. But you are still left with your hatred and anger and all the things that should not be there.
I wonder what would happen if the sky fell down. No really. It just fell down. Boom. Right on top of us. You think it would break into little pieces? Can you imagine the sound that would make. The entire sky, heaving and hurtling its way right on top of you.
I dont know where this is going. Most of the time I don’t. And I think I prefer it that way. Cause then there is a sense of suspense, of anticipation at what comes next. There is some joy in waiting.
Had the most delish bombay duck today. It was freshly fried and absolutely wonderful. I like the texture of that fish the most. Slightly icky but just so good to taste. Yummers.
It is getting harder and harder to write though. Every single time it feels like that much more of an effort, that much more of planning out, writing it out and erasing it and writing it again.
Does talent diminish with age? Of course it does. That is a stupid question. Of course it does. Well perhaps it does not. Perhaps it changes its shape and its sharpness and perhaps we are all stars floating in an endless sea.
I like the idea of floating in an endless sea. I like the idea of floating. I like the idea of a sea. Of so much water and waves and currents that you cannot see but you can feel.
It is important to feel. To be able to feel.