Dreams on L.

It was a dreary day. At least it was very silent, if not tranquil, at home the only persons present was me and my roommate A. We both shared an aim, a task. Either of us had to complete a thesis; her a bachelor one, me a one level up work. Neither of us felt like writing and hence we were indulging in all sorts of activities excluding the one pending above. I am a person who boasts never to have had any errand due. With this, however, it is different. Maybe it is due to insufficient motivation; maybe it is owing to the good, ol' excuse - the weather outside; maybe it is so because lately I am having anything but home return on my mind and the reunion with B. I can't help but muse over us together, here and there, in O. in particular. In order to accelerate the time I have went out as far as buying myself a book and immersing in it to complete the aforementioned goal. Ever since I graduated from the ED at the Jag I wondered and fret my language skills; that they will pound in oblivion if not exploited; that they will go away irretrievably in some ghastly recesses of my memory; that the passive usage [if such may be even distinguished] will lead me to a linguistic impasse and inertia, that it will not be enough; and so on and so forth. Right now, that I am trying to make my thoughts perpetual [that is to be considered so long as the net with its servers stays alive at least] I see no danger, no trepidation as I endure the familiar phenomenon once defined by myself for my own internal usage: when one knows what one wants to say, one consequently knows what and how to put it in words, thence one is not at the lack of the previously mentioned lexemes, not to mention the abundance of synonyms and other rhetorical figures. Then, I am content to be happily creating a [what is in my opinion] a well-written piece of text, a short-form, if you will. The flow of information and the logical continuity of the content run smoothly too.

There is something else I also wanted to elaborate on, namely, the notion of ubiquitous minimalism in my  internal reality, as I shall call it for the purposes of this post. True, I would admit of you said "tell us something, we don't know" but this reflection is much broader in its message. Recently, I have devoted a considerable amount of time on thinking about this matter. That is to say, I have singled out three spheres, as if, where the above-named lifestyle can be detected. First, there is the external minimalism which concerns everything which can be found in my nearest vicinity, i.e., the place which I live and occupy. This involves scarcity of objects, decorations and such. Conversely, there is internal minimalism which means that I will tend to clarify my mind and memory from redundant thoughts and data in general. When it comes to good memories, these are cultivated and restored so as not to get forgotten and their purpose is to be of service in less well-off times. Lastly, the minimalistic approach to life can be also extrapolated on what comes out from me, on what I give from myself to the external world. In other words, living the minimal life I will have a penchant to talk little [but think much], limit my contacts with other people, those whom I live with but do not want to involve them in my private stuff, I will tell only basic and superficial things and the conversation will revolve around as mundane topics as possible only [like weather, etc.] and will never touch upon my personal life. That is it, I guess. An attitude I like, a mindset I do. This is how I want my life to be done. Leading a quite solitary life, you might say, but this is an opinion contingent upon an extravertic observer, mind you. Of course, I would enjoy the books, those of Houellebecq and other modern fiction in particular. Then again, you might ask yourself isn't she a sad looking person?. The answer is no, however. This is because although I may look sad and worried on the outside it will only be for those times when I would be pondering over my escape to L. or O. or recalling all those beautiful and cherished moments spent with B. I shall simply be plotting a voyage out of this city and to those I truly love. These are not many; countable on one palm solely. But this is a remark which you may have probably be able to infer by now. I once incurred a thought am I becoming him? but that was just one time and I abandoned it. Everything around me would be in perfect order. I think, life is easier when you have a philosophical approach to it. This, obviously, is content which you could not conclude by judging on the outside, nevertheless. For, it is only when I decide to select it and put it on display here. For, the internal is so much complex than the outside.