I’m supposed to be cleaning, so instead, I’m reflecting.
I made the mistake of unpacking my high school yearbook. Ah, the life imagined and never achieved. Everyone, myself included, thought I’d be writer. Now all the writing I do is blogging–and let’s face it; blogging isn’t real writing. It’s just high tech journaling.
I really shouldn’t give into the melancholy, but how can I not? What is this life I lead? This empty, meaningless life.
But the alternative is worst, so I continue.
Continue being a nobody behind a computer screen. Just trying to live a proletariat life, trying to pretend there is nobility in amounting to absolutely nothing.