It is still the morning despite my having spent over two hours sitting and staring at this screen. I wonder why this is the case and what has sapped all the energy out of me, but then, I remember it is perhaps because I did not sleep too well last night. And why was it? Why it always is. I had another absurd dream about the same day I was to wake up to, and it disturbs me that I often have to live life twice in this uniquely odd way. And if I tell someone about it, I get looks of disbelief and, sometimes, contempt. But what would I gain from lying about it? I had six things to do today and chores in between, and I had done the six to the best of my ability, conversations with people were as lucid as can be, and then I woke up, and I realised, once again, for the millionth time, that it was a dream, and that it was but a rehearsal for what I was about to do. This ailment—for the lack of a better word—has been the greatest cause of all my agony, and if I seem worried, it is because I am unable to separate what is a dream and what is not sometimes. And sometimes, you want to live through your days only once. And, of course, I am not one to believe in the hullabaloo of mysticism. It is simply that my mind is not at rest, and it never has been, barring a few months a couple of years ago. It was the first and, perhaps, the last time I learned how it is for other people.
Oh, well, nothing a little bit of coffee cannot solve. That I keep an upbeat demeanour, that I am jocular and I talk fast and ask people to get out of the house, that I am a person in the strongest sense of the word as soon as I shut the door behind me and go outside is my greatest favour to the world. I have every reason I need to be miserable, I have every reason to be furious, and then some. Exhaustion is all I have known, and no amount of sleep, if you were to take me at my word, and I suggest you should, helps. Seventeen minutes to a meeting, so I must stop here and call this a piece. There, I have written. I have done it again.