He knows nothing

The best trick about writing is to start and keep writing itself. You stop writing when you stop writing. There is no secret about it.

There are many such useless thoughts that he keep pondering on while wasting hours and hours of doing whatever unspecified things. It’s not that he is not doing anything and he is not enjoying whatever something he is doing. He is trying at least.

Emptiness. He had thought he would not use this world. But perhaps that should be the word to describe his state. He runs, he plays flute, he scrolls down miles on twitter and facebook. Not that everything is boring; but the culmination of it all certainly is. Life itself is boring. Sum of it all what is interesting is somehow turning out to be boring.

This is not an ideal state of living, he knows. That most of this is self-imposed, he understands. What is one to do when they can’t feel the happiness that they ought to? These are the questions he keeps wondering about. Life slips, he knows, life slips.

What is it that stops him from being someone? He would care nothing, but it is getting clearer day by day that the someone he finds himself being unable to become is he himself. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

He knows nothing.

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