It's dark outside.  The cold white of the overhead lamp falls harshly over sheets of rejected paper -- badly drawn chairs and hastily written complaints. It keeps reminding me of all the things I have yet to finish, but it has yet to bother me (a bad habit, I guess).  I'm enjoying this emotional equilibrium, where everything feels  safest. I'm sometimes ousted out of my reverie when I hear the occasional roar of a jeepney slicing through the vacant avenue just outside. It reminds me of half the world pretending to be asleep.  I myself am struggling to stay awake.  For no important reason, really, but to satisfy my need to live on the edge (of sanity, perhaps).  Since I've given up on academics-related stuff, I'm now just trying to make the words spill out of me like it used to, but it's kind of becoming futile.  A lot has changed, I guess.  But I'm still trying to find that trigger.  Most times, writing comes with sadness, but I am at such a standstill in my life.   Emotions don't come and go like they used to.  I'm trying to think back to where it all started, and I remember it all started here.  With blogging. About mundane things. Like how my day went, in detail (but not as bad as I woke up and brushed my teeth at 7 am).    So maybe I'll try just that and eventually get better again.

I hope.