Sickness

Listening to: ­Love you to by The Beatles.

Was going through my previous posts. The ones I wrote when I started blogging. And the ones I’ve written recently. The degradation is obvious. My writing has lost the passion and the angst that made it what it was. I don’t anymore feel what I write. And re-reading the later posts is almost impossible.
No, I don’t say I’ve taken to writing to just keep the boredom away, or to fill space. It is just the stagnation I’m undergoing that shows in my writing.
I have no one to blame but me. I’ve stopped having a perspective on things that go on around me. I blindly look up to editorials and columns for perspective. In short, I don’t have anything much to say about the world around me.
I don’t anymore write what I feel, either. Staying in this place has hardened my exterior to such an extent that I barely know what I feel. My sense of humor has taken second place to my sense of rumor. All I come up with are clichés and borrowed thoughts.
All I want to do now is to regain my sense of self, get in touch with my real thoughts and feelings and at the same time, not block out the rest of the world, but to take it all in and make sense of it.

I’M GOING HOME!!!

Epilogue: I haven’t been home for months. And I don’t think I can go home till May 10th the very least. It isn’t pleasant anymore here, being in the thick of intellectual stagnation.
All I need is a place to dust the cobwebs in my head, where I have unrestricted access to the idiot box, can read the newspaper for as long as I wish, debate on newspaper reports for hours on end, and have food so good that its warmth floods me, coaxing me gently to take yet another helping.