Warning: Reading the following can be a total waste of time.
The sun was already out when I got out of bed this morning. It was forecasted to be a hot weather today. I am told that the easiest way to predict a weather with decent accuracy is to assume that it will be the same as the day before. In which case, one does not need to have a degree in Meteorology to be a weatherperson. All one need is a pretty face. Preferably with a curvy body. Or if one is guy, a strong shoulder and a Burt Reynolds mustache. I already know that I have no chance of growing thick facial hair. I blame genetics. Maybe even blame evolution that went extreme. My guess is that my Neanderthal uncle had evolved into a hairless human far too quickly compared to his still evolving counterparts. Yet there are many advantages of being hairless. Especially in this hot weather.
These are days when I could sense my inside filled with patchwork quilt of loose dried leaves. One gentle step to it could easily shatter the leaves like Captain Crunch breakfast flakes inside the mouth of Charlie Sheen with a bad hang-over. I understand Charlie. Indeed, at times I tend to sympathize with him. Only today, I really don’t care about him. Like my apathy with Charlie, I am so far detached with my shattered dried leaves. Not much to care about. Just like that Captain Crunch flakes. I don’t care what happens to them. As King Solomon once mused, “it’s meaningless.” These are one of those days.
Lately I don’t want any confrontations. Which is a good thing because I’m usually contentious. But there is a difference between being deliberatively non-confrontational and being an escapist. The former weighs in before committing oneself to an idea. An escapist is well – an escapist. I have found refuge in escapism. Which leads to isolationism.
I have been a closet recluse for some time now. Rose tells me that I need get out of my isolationism. That I ought to get back to writing again. It’s difficult when one has not done it in a while. All these random things kept creeping in every other words I typed. But one has to start somewhere. Hopefully, by end of this silly monograph things will get more coherent. Maybe.
I find that writing tends to flesh out things. It forces one to question the point of getting a message across. This is why I have stopped writing for a while. I have no point to get across. Or rather I refuse to get a point across. Because if I did I would have to face things. Mainly my excess baggage.
I can tell that this monograph is going nowhere. At least I would hope that the crusty looking dead leaves pictured above would make up for this gibberish. You have been forewarned.