I can't help but feel most times that I am just someone who tries to write an elaborate novel with the most limited of vocabularies. There is so much I want to say and there is so much I want to do, yet what I can is limited by what I know and what I know is always changing and always limited.
Ideally I'd like to be remembered fondly and a lot by those whom I'd consider as close, in a way that I want to be remembered. But realistically, I'd just like to do my best and hope that I'd not have a very lengthy list of to-dos to to contend with when it is all over. In the past two months I have kicked smoking, hopefully for good, redefined my the meaning of my existence fit a new purposeless endeavour, now I need another distraction.
Still, I am prone to the same old maladies, I still get drunk on the same 300 ml of vodka, especially when it is consumed on an empty stomach, why then? Does a more civilised and stable life justify the travails when deep inside I am more uncertain and even more shit scared than when I was at my worst.
The truth is, I do not know, nor do I think I will ever know. I can only pick from a list of what is known. Yes, I do goof up even when I know that is what I should not be doing, I do have to fill my routine quota of regrets, though ideally it should be otherwise. But I do not whine about it anymore, it is now my favourite bastard child.
To be honest, I am happy. Which should explain the lack of entries here, for I am one of those who spew out reams when there is a lot to whine about. But, there is no purpose even in this happiness. But since it is such a rare feeling to be content within oneself (the regulation negatives accounted for), I am just glad it is there.