When I was younger, much younger than at present, I used to hate Saturdays and Sundays so much that I wanted they never exist, for they brought a loathsome experience. Now I no longer do, for that loathsome experience isn’t a privilege of Saturdays and Sundays alone. Everyday is the same boring routine.
I appear an anti-social in front of my friends. It’s justified though; I don’t go out much and I do enjoy my own company; I’m introverted after all. Still, I’m not so comfortable, not as much as people give me credits for, with being alone. Being alone equals being lonely, at least in my case.
Today is Sunday and my chance to socialize was denied. A mild disappointment. Or is it?
I’m delaying my projects mostly due to my lack of motivation (again), interest and energy. If only there was someone to lend me a bit of courage. Vain, no?
There was something I kept to myself: I wasn’t very honest with my thesis. The committee assumed that I bore great love for literature in general and Kafka in specific. No I didn’t. I didn’t even like his works. But as I did research on him, I found myself begin to sympathize with him. His talents I might not share but the majority of his problems are well within me.
Another rambling post.