Okay. I am writing today because I am having the greatest urge to write, less anything to write about, in my long hiatus. It’s been a while that I can't access blogspot in the office but thank gawd I can access travellerspoint. Travellerspoint used to be history, but boredom and an almost unethical amount of down time will get you wear old granny's frock or dive in your own dumpster—just metaphors.
Now it's nice walking down memory lane. You think of old friends. You realize that you missed them. You feel proud of what they have become and you wish them more luck and success. You wish them big, albeit, big might be offensive. You like the friends that they make and you also fantasize the boys that they meet.
I thought of my old workplace--my old chair, my old station, my dusty computer, post-its, deadlines... You remember the familiar noise in the background that seemed muted by desensitization. You relive it with closed eyes. You smile.
Old stuff and old places can be bathetic. I found great emotional treasures lurking in every punctuation. Now I write, because I want to; because I want to feel that “high” again. I want to see my words uploaded for my appreciation. It's narcissistic and I'm sorry. I used to believe that I am a writer, but now I am just a spectator, watching lives in bytes.