It seems like i have come back to life after an extremely long time. Not that it is as great an experience as one would think. It is the realities - the harsh ones - that hit you first, the same frustrations... the same problems, and the realization that things are still, sadly, the same.
But then again, perhaps coming back to life is supposed to give you a refreshed appreciation for all that life stands for; but that’s perhaps too idealistic an idea. However, such experiences do, in some ways remind us of many things that we may have forgotten about ourselves, and remind us that that there are still many things that we can still, despite all the cynicism, appreciate and enjoy.
Or, for that matter, remind us about things that we do NOT enjoy. And that’s what has hit me recently: there are many things I wanted to do with myself, that I had forgotten down the line, and become obsessed with the very things that I despised in others.
It seems that all I have started doing is spend my own time, whatever I have left for myself, as a way to kill it-rather than to spend it on myself, for myself, I end up using as a means to spend it as quickly as possible, as opposed to actually enjoying it.
Surely, that’s not the way to be? Shouldn’t we spend the little time we get away from others’ demands upon us in a way we want to spend it in, rather in a way we think we should spend it in? Or, for that matter, spending time alone? Why has that become an almost scary thought?
