This is the fiftieth post. As usual, one has nothing to say. We could do with a break. We could do with our lives not being packed to plans till about three months later. (The older we grow the harder it becomes to “get away from it all.”) We don’t feel like buying train tickets although coming to think of it, the trip will possibly be fun. The only desire is to melt away into nothingness.

This persistent case of dissatisfaction may (possibly) be traced back to the problematic way we define the mundane. This is mundane, the endless rat-race with its minuscule victories and gratifications, this is the trap. CV-fattening is the trap. Success is the trap, it puts you on a wall of fame and lovingly cements you in till you cannot move an eyeball in an untoward direction. The transcendental is out there and it’s blurring out a little, going slowly slowly slowly out of reach with every day you wake up and take a coffee shot and go to college and write another bloody test.

It all boils down to the bloody test. That is the problem. This fatal shortsightedness.

4 thoughts on “50”

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