Sometimes your life seems to be converging into a series of blahs. Days seem insipid, your mind is in a constant state of queasiness, thoughts assume a diahorric quality. Are we meant to be happy all the time? Or is suffering shoved onto us to make realisation sink in? For us to know just how lucky we are to have some nanoseconds of glee? Is this feeling of ultimate degeneration part of the larger picture?
When can I see the picture? Who draws that picture? Why wasn't I invited to draw too? And do not say cause you can't draw because looking at the way its shaping up, I don't think anyone who has anything to do with it is an artist. Why do some sunny days feel so cold? Who gets to answer all this? And why don't I ever seem to have any answers?
Is oscillating from sunlight-shimmering positivity to the hollows of negativity normal? Ok who decides what's normal? Surely not the same moron who's making that picture. That brings me full circle.
Everything IS blah.