-When I’m alone, I think of the worst case scenario. To end up alone, live a life that no one knows but you. I make peace with myself and peace with solitude. I know it well. My childhood companion.
The days keep passing and there is much to do, but I do nothing, except watch the sun dim on the window. And sometimes I wonder, why it is that my days are so short. Yet I cannot rise from my slumber till the morning has vanished. I’ve been here before, but with so much more feeling. I used to feel. An anxiety, a biting in me. I needed to do, to be, to have some legacy. Now, I wander the world, wondering if there is some great inciting incident in the story of me, as it unfolds. Am I simply a day in the life-tale, without momentum. For as much as I complain about the lack of momentum in so many of Hollywoods formulaic films, I live my life along that vein.
There was a moment. When I was nine. The accident. It turned my life inside and out. I wonder if I ever found my way out of that. Sometimes, even when I am not conscious of it, I know there is a certain part of me that ruminates upon the incident and only stops when it is perplexed and cannot go on.
But was that really the turning point? Was that plot point one, the first act break in my life?
And what part am I in now? I think the audience has tuned out, or walked out altogether. There’s not much interest in watching a film called ‘Man on Couch’, less even for ‘Man in Head’. I find myself with more contemplation than action. No wonder my head is heavy ladden.
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