I can't remember the last time I wrote something coherent that was bigger than a single sentence. Every day without fail, I attempt to deduce the reasoning behind this, placing events into chronological order, and then realising that I don't know what day it is.
I look through at the disjointed paragraphs, strewn across the pages like the last fragile leaves that Spring had forgotten about.
"I have this incredible feeling of 'falling into myself'."
I try to contextualise. Maybe I've fallen too far, or not enough. "Where ever you are, you're always in between two things. Sometimes, we take the feeling of loneliness for granted.
I took a short stroll through the forest and met a philosopher walking his dog.
"Doesn't matter where you go" He said "There's always mud."
Traversing the unmapped terrains and running through untouched landscapes of the mind, sometimes only gives you muddied shoes.
I guess the unwitting philosopher was right.
"The sense of composition breaks down smoothly, like a plain wall interspersed with holes. These are just my thoughts, and second hand existence."
I've resorted to other people writing in my book. This reminds me of an unrelated question my dad asked me recently. "Isn't that...what d'ya call it...Blasphemy?"
The only conclusion I can draw from all of this theorising, is that I'm happy...and who wants to read about that?
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