Again, Im shocked by my own inability to write anything. It’s diminishing with time and just feels so overwhelming to squeeze something out these days. I’m in a truer sense comforted by stuff and things, and not so much thoughts anymore. I guess I’m just tired or bored or whatever I felt I can’t get a grasp on it. The result of a lifetime of bad habits and constant failures. I need to feel I achieved something on a daily basis and the way I live now (and for about 10 years now) is in no way accommodating to that. Nothing is burning anymore. But when it does come I feel the worst kind of inadequacy to do it, like I will never have the time to live another day. It can be draining. And the way I cling to stability in my life (eg : work) is insane sometimes. When I realize how badly I needed to stay on this same track to feel like my life is onto something and provides me the comfort of knowing that I touched other people’s lives in my line of work, is sad. People should be wholesome with or without their jobs am I right? Or such perfect life only ever happens outside my existential world? Is it wrong to want perfection in things that are virtually impossible? I understand the danger of imposing far too perfect visions of life in reality but I seemed to always do this to myself. One thing I told myself is that I am not defined by my work. But then again, who am I without what I do for a living and my supposed position in society? Just a nostalgic adult who doesn’t wanna change and progress. I have really old and (far fetched) aims I wanted to achieve and until those are done, I can never let go.

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