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What are we if not a coincidence?

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On writing

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Writing has become tough. It’s like that small town not too far from where I live but whenever I plan on visiting, it’s either raining heavily or the traffic is just too much; meaning I postpone. Procrastinate. Unlike before, when I didn’t visit but lived there for as long as I wanted. It was home. It was easy. The traffic, the rain, none of it mattered. The town existed within. It helped me connect with myself the first time in life and I still haven’t experienced anything close to that feeling when you know how well in sync you are with yourself. It was just so unreal and the most real experience all at the same time. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be classy. It doesn’t have to be overflown with self-love just because I mentioned connecting with self. Rather, it’s not about self-love. It’s about self. I’ve lately come to understand how essential it is to know and be generous or at least, acceptable about or with oneself, your own self. I didn’t real...
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Maybe this is because life currently has become steadily non-happening and so I walk in circles these days, without coming to a halt. I find myself sleeping for more hours than I usually do and probably need. I must be going to sleep feeling longing for something or nothing at all for I feel even number when I wake up. I have things to do but I've kept most of them away for a while. I have friends to meet but I don't go out lately. When I do, its with my cousin brother. The fresh street and head lights add a specific feel to the pretty, happy and busy faces I see on my way and I am just shown another side of my mood that doesn't last long; a feeling as I reach home, knowing I'll again be the same person enjoying solitude. The time spent playing old games with the ones I have blood relations with put me at ease somehow and I suddenly miss my family. My own people. They're there in front of me but I end up missing them more than ever. I remember how I was brough...
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Sitting here, I wonder if it's about seeing in the mirror and liking what I see. 'Your eyes speak', they say. With every look of myself I get everytime I see, they, my eyes, seem to want to confront me. With all my honesty, I say, I run away from them. I try to. But the next time, everytime, it's a sensation of their coming toward me more hurriedly. They must be knowing the truth behind all the lies under the Sun I may have happened to tell myself in order to keep going. It's what I am used to do. To keep going, not knowing how far but far still. I am not used to the comfort there is in stopping for a moment or two. The comfort doesn't comfort me enough, although the view of it I get is inviting and tempting. I do not like the idea of walking the carpet that could take me somewhere I may be told I could dream. It doesn't completely satisfy me, being somewhere for a long time where there is everything I like. Going somewhere for a while where they may ...
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