There is nothing fantastic about being a loner. Sometimes, few as they maybe, you wish for more friends and lots of noise around you. Sometimes meaningless-ness can be fun, no?
I don’t have those kind of friends. Friends that you would do insignificant things with like have an aimless afternoon doing nothing but talking about superficial things like how dark someone’s hair colour is or how lopsided someone’s frown is. This doesn’t mean that I don’t spend my pointless life talking about such trivial things. It is just that I don’t have special friends for that. I have empty talks but mostly they are with self. Petty and schizophrenic, aren’t we?
I want a trivial life, full of fair-weather friends. What I have is a life I chose with friends that are better people, better writers and more at peace than me. I don’t grudge them that. I just wish I too would have a slice of that what would give me that kind of satisfaction. Dear God, why for fuck’s sake can I not be satisfied with what I have?
I hate weekends. They leave me feeling empty and like I don’t have a life that I think I should have. Either the hubby is busy with all the work or there are formal social committments. The fact that I live in a bloody village does not help. DOES NOT.
I never considered myself the city-kinds. I thought I was the small-town/village kind of person. You know beauty of nature, innocence of people who are uncorrupted by the greeds of the big city. I am still that kind of person, except on weekends.
I am distressingly uninspired. And I don’t know what to do with myself.
You should catch yourself on.