A rather troubling and yet not overbearing thought of not having a singular thought in my head itches the good part of my brain. The division of focus-from whatever that was present- into multitudes of vague directions appears pointless. And yet, there’s no other alternative I’d rather choose.
My to-do list of chores auto-expands and virtually snoozes while I keep myself engrossed into indulgences that tick my lazy self at peace. Delays. And more delays.
From a post-a-day run-rate of writing down thoughts that a few good people read and liked to piling on drafts that don’t see the click of the published button. To those who write would empathize how a stale thought that passes the expiration of the moment it has been written for is meant to be brushed under. My WordPress dashboard is that carpet.
The emotional mix is a collection of more colors than a packet of gems. Compartmentalized and yet overflowing among themselves. Seeping out in the front, occasionally. The art of a fake laughter and the forced calm behind the rage. I’m mixin-it-all-up.
From the hypothetical questions to a trip in the alleys of the past. All of it, just a few phone numbers away. Few kilometers away. Still standing, at the crease of a confused adulthood, ducking bouncers, learning to leave and missing out on a picturesque cover drive. Cannot risk getting back to the pavilion. Of course, that stopped me. As if.
At the diversion of the ‘what-if’ and ‘it-all-happens-for-good’, the choice of the road always comes back to the same point. Shifting balances when it suits my selfishness.
Everyone’s part of the story. The ones they know. The ones they don’t.
I don’t want to write all the stories, though.