And what a life it is.

This is your life
If I could read a book about me, I would. And it will be one ride of sorts. With painstakingly detail I read about trying to keep myself from drowning when my bus falls off the road into a raging river. Next minute, I’d be sitting at my desk, trying to sell a mutual fund to a potential customer.

I close my eyes at night and what is it that I think of?

I think it will make for a controversy if we could know what goes on in someone’s mind. We could write about something in different ways.

I watched him as he went on reading, oblivious to me.

This is pretty straightforward.

I watched him as he went on reading, oblivious to me. Barely did I know that he was distraught, thinking about his life over and over again in a playback. I could hardly fathom that the next day I’d find him bent on his desk, overdosed, wondering what could have ever provoked this.
So yes, a book about me would make for an interesting read. I want to remember what transpired to make me the person I am. I want to remember what of this life I have already forgotten. I want to know when was the last time I felt joy, the last time I fell in love and if I am capable of all these emotions that others so evidently feel.

I want to remember my nightmares, know my dreams and try to interpret them, however ambiguous. 

My life on the outside seems drab, viciously pulled into a Whirlpool of monotony.

It is the mind that’s interesting.

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