A life caught in the security of everyday routine, of repeating pastiches, and of motifs that cycle and do nothing else but to go round and round, until it consumes itself and loses it reason for existence*. Almost all great literature were written in periods where people were subjected to great turmoil, either physical or psychological. And this will also probably explain why this blog was most active when I had to remain awake until five in the morning and wake up three hours later for my next work, when I barely had time to write because I had to work as if I would starve if I stopped working for a moment. And because I had to make love like a recently deflowered virgin experimenting on the possibilities of love’s bliss.
Now things have changed. Although I’m in the comfort of my parent’s house, my childhood home, I do not feel like I belong here. I got time, but not the drive. I got inspiration, but not passion. I got clearer thoughts, but mostly empty. How I hate this unbearable lightness of being. Something inside me is telling me that I have to leave this bubble soon or I’ll go nuts.
*I am fully aware of this redundancy.