I have been doing very little work, creativity-wise. One good reason is I've been exiled out of my room. Another good one is that I'm lazy. Spent most of the day finishing up a monstrous piece of work that had been misalloted to me. An entire weekend misspent. Tomorrow is a holiday. Will try to study.
In the evening, a little over 8 o' clock, almost buzzing with boredom and that good-for-nothing tiredness that sitting before a computer leaves you with, I decided to go out for a little walk around the house. It was a good decision.
The world outside was alive. Summer seemed to rush into me. The sun had set, the sky was a deep, mysterious shade of blue and a few stars twinkled. The trees outside seemed warm green in the fluorscent tubelights, fresh from the thunderstorm two days ago. In the street next to mine, a dog began to bark. Little froglets scurried all over the road. The fresh air was filled with singing of the insects. At places the damp, rotting twigs and branches gave an odour that made you feel like you were in a lonely forest. I began to think about whether it was possible to write how I felt in words, and felt a little anxious knowing that I would not be able to do that, and this part of the day would soon end, and the rigmarole of life would soon take over again. I marvelled at how everyone is a caught in a web, trying to find a little happiness, carve out a little niche for themselves so they would feel a little homely; how all the bosses had bosses, and their bosses had bosses.
It ended suddenly with the ringing of my phone. I had been called back home.