Bookmark #742

It is not washed over me that I am not an exceptional person; it is something I accept with my arms wide open. I live my life like every other person. I wake up—usually later than planned—and begin my day, stumbling into tasks. It usually starts with a sort of foley of me making coffee—nothing but the sound of the different steps, divided only by pin-drop gaps. And then, it truly begins, and before it is even afternoon, it is already over because I know nothing can happen that will turn its tide.

The day is set into its cast by afternoon. There is not much I can do to change that, nor do I ever try. And between that moment and now, which is way past midnight, it is a blink. The blink is filled with an abundance of little things noteworthy and otherwise alike, but it all passes so quickly that I often forget. I entertain myself enough—I watch enough television, read enough books (which is something I tell myself to continue being able to call myself a writer), and play enough games. As I said, it is not something unknown that this is a bland life with its mild exceptions now and then, but by no means do they make this life exceptional. This is all by design, of course. I do not desire extraordinary. Working, as long as I get to write and have a good time now and then, and sometimes, making time for a vacation, is as good as anything else.

These words, as I understand them, are not exceptional, too, not in themselves, naturally. But one day, they will serve as a writ to the kind of life I lived. And in their nothingness, they will be something. Banal as they are, they will become exceptional simply because I will not be here to write them anymore. That is probably what compels me to sit at this desk and continue this drudgery. Otherwise, there is no other reasonable explanation for this torture, and I do not recommend it. Moments I interrupt or outright skip so there are some words on the sheet will never happen again, and out of them, these words will have emerged. I will let whoever reads them in the days to come make whatever they make of it.

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