Another day

This life is way too wayward. Now that’s another thing to consider that my life is absolutely ordinary. Which means, it’s also disinteresting. I have a job, in IT/Software, and I got a good salary package…and all that, but here’s the deal: there are many days I hate waking up and going to work. I hate being alive, and I hate being employed. I am working because, well, my parents want me to…so that I can keep myself on my feet. My parents want me to have a simple life…but there’s no such thing called a simple life. I am sold, and the only thing I really got, for myself is: truckloadfull of bullshit. Suicide has become an option, I am wandering like a fool in spaces, and places looking for purpose, but, seriously, there is no purpose…whatsoever.

Oh the goodness of all, I am tired. I want to quit, to do something else altogether.

The above content was written on a day I was going through a lot of rubbish. Before I move on to the next item on my list, I’d rather complete this post.

But since today is a different day, today has come up with a new set of problems and dilemmas. I think problem has always been with me. I don’t think a lot, and act even less. Time flies by, and there isn’t much I usually do. Life takes you somewhere, and then…once you reach there, you find out that this is not what you wanted. This happens all the time. It will happen all the time.

I am tired. I write because it is becoming an obsession. Words pop-up in my mind, and there is no other place they’d find home. Hardly anyone exists to talk, and no, getting married is not a solution. The other day I was reading a quotation somewhere, it said, “running away is not a solution.” I don’t know what is. I am writing, writing to finish the piece to begin again. To speed through the moment that has me stalled at a place I don’t want to. But no one listens, I have realized. Everybody has got his own struggle to break him down into pieces. Why is it that our own struggle seems greater than others? Is it so, that I am just a rich ruthless idiot to not understand others’ problems?

There is no space for a man in the life of another. We wander, tirelessly looking for that but ending up with nothing but wastage, useless, endless wastage; of our lives, of our time, of our thoughts. We don’t quite reach anywhere, do we? I don’t know.

[Random thought, typing on a keyboard with appropriately lowered reclining chair with large keyboard makes writing a total pleasure.]

I read somewhere, “when you face tough decisions you author your life.” I think that’s a true. But that’s also a part of the garbage we consume everyday to not quite implement, but to ignore. Even, I don’t quite understand what I wrote, myself.

I just write at times. I write to vent my energy out of system because there is no one to talk to, or understand. The other day a blogging community rejected my blog, this one, because they need at least 10 blogposts to authorize a blog. I think that’s justified. They might need serious bloggers. Us, who yell at a random white space, can’t really be serious bloggers. Because serious bloggers blog out of passion, not compulsion. They do it, because they want to do it. I do it because there is no other go. I don’t know what will happen when I will, in fact, publish 10 blogposts here. I think I’ll apply again.

So little I have to talk about. I think it is just another day. Full of boredom and nothingness.