The title remains blank. Clearly we all don’t start by naming things. It might work for some people, if not all.
Possibly as a result of watching too many serials, – yes besides the fact of transforming to a bed-potato, since “couch” doesn’t seem to work in my context, – it gets you thinking about: how much of time you waste, how you could be productive otherwise, why the director made him stand that way while saying those lines to her, why does the storyline seem familiar and to an extent applicable to your own?
A good friend was telling me lately of the story of the idiot box. How information is easily available and how we make even less of an effort in extracting it. We are indeed in the “Age of the Stupid”.
I say I can’t write any more because my muse – Heaven forbid the existence of any months before – has found its way out of my, uhm soul? Whatever I do write now, or blog, since that has become synonymous to writing, is pathetic. But then, it’s not as though good writing for equivalent to my writing anyway.
I hardly read. My writing is horrendous. I’m worried about how fucked up the world is that I refuse accept my own fucked up life.
A title finds it self to the post.
I assume that I find my work-life balance.
We all live in our own little assumptions, interpretations and complexities. No one really gives a rat’s bottom about an awful post, an equally awful blog and a fucked up title. Nope, no one really cares.