life /lIf/ (n): the condition of living or the state of being alive; the quality that distinguishes a vital and functional being from a dead body

If your life consists of just getting through the day’s and hoping that tomorrow will bring less drudgery, would that qualify as life?

If your life sans eclat would boil down to simply counting down the hours until you go pffft, would that count at all?

Again, don’t mind me, I’m just rambling. It’s just ironically, now that I can call the shots to where I want to be headed, I haven’t the faintest idea on where to go, let alone what to do. How my life has simmered down to this state of limbo, I could not fathom. It’s silly, really — I don’t know if it’s just hormones or some long-suspected clinical condition, but sometimes I feel so lost and alone, that I could just spontaneously burst into tears. Now, that could be awkward if I bawl in the middle of typing. Sheesh.

Maybe it’s just because recently, nothing has recently made me happy, as in with the true sense of bliss. Nothing bad really happened, but nothing that good, either. They say life is supposed to be this big adventure, this roller coaster. Then you discover that it’s really more of a Rialto — scream all you want, but it’s just as real as you would want it to be.

Oh well, enough whining.

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Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday. I’ll keep that in mind.