Fancy title, right? I have no idea what to write. Only that I want to write something.
The periodic shriek of my window’s stopper noise is distracting me from the fact that a cold summer breeze is blowing outside. Most days, it rains mildly around evening, and I find a good splash across my face a bit chilly.
It’s been a few months since I left all social media, and I didn’t really miss it. I’ve also stopped missing people, their faces, and all the noise. For some reason, I don’t miss anyone. It’s probably because social media was constantly reminding me of them through their stories, posts, and more. But now that I sit to have a tea across from my office building, I can’t seem to recall too many faces. A few old friends, sometimes family, and some random person here and there, but most of the time, I can’t even remember anyone’s name until someone reminds me.
I seem to enjoy this. I want to finish one novella that I started writing last year, “Crossroads of the Long Storm,” I named it. I wanted to show inner conflicts as an outward cry, not for help (it must be said), but I can’t seem to care too much about it.
This is what being content has taken away from me. Now I want neither.