Con ganas de nada. Those four words express perfectly my current predicament, I don't even feel like writing anything down about it, you'll just have to take my word for it- it's some sort of profound boredom and illness I have contracted from living, as distasteful as it sounds, I am dreadfully bored with how contrived beauty and even the search thereof is. I'm tired, it's unappealing to me, and it feels terrible, but I know it's right. I feel it dragging me down, but it's keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground. I mean I realize it's dehumanizing and alienating, but the predicament itself more strongly lies in the fact that I just don't care. Should that be what bothers me? I'm just banking on the fact that it should be, it's of no particular interest to me anyway.
I suspect there's not much to be done either way, until I wake up one ordinary morning and suddenly all those things that felt artificial to reach for, or to want will no longer seem like so because I will no longer have been looking for it, and while attempting to slip by with the unremarkable flow of the day it'll have clumsily stumbled into my mind. These things are as predictable as sunrise, sunset,
repeat ad infinitum.
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