I can't wrap my head around it quite yet but my life mostly feels like it's on autopilot these days.
Every weekday I wake up at the same time and do exactly the same things. Every weekend, the pattern continues. I have a set schedule that I mostly stick to and I repeat it every weekend if possible. I feel numb and indifferent on most days and moments of joy, mystery, and novelty are rare occurrences. I've started to wonder if this is what happens to most people as they get older. They find their pattern and settle in and ride it out till the end. Maybe I have found my pattern and I am content with having a day job that I tolerate and all of my free time is spent on doing things I actually love. Maybe that's not such a bad life.
Or, I could just be rationalizing it and I have "settled" and have lost the ability to take any real chances. At this point, I don't really know and it's a bit troubling that I don't seem to care either. I guess that could be an answer in itself.
Dr. Rostain says that "there is no straight line through life." I don't think that's true. For most people, there probably is after they hit a certain age.
About Me
- Vahagn Karapetyan
- The beginning is perhaps more difficult than anything else, but keep heart, it will turn out all right. -Vincent van Gogh
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Hark Triton, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves teeming with salt foam to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til' ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in cockle shells with slitherin' tentacle tail and steaming beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye - a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the harpies and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea!