Today, I strain to search my mind for something to write about. Okay, I admit it, I have been walking on the edge without a harness for days, but heck, not writing doesn't kill. Or does it? Days of repetitive editing and abstracting somehow taught me to be more functional than creative. I am fulfilled at the end of the day knowing my office output has brought a smile to my boss's rather sullen expression. I reach home anticipating the next day, not because I look forward to another work day, but because it spells activity and consumed time. (sometimes, I view it as a means of escape to my otherwise uneventful life) I do not even miss sleeping. Life is too short and chaotic to snooze through. At 21, dreaming of a hyperactive lifestyle is as natural as sleep. And since I don't sleep, I dream awake.

(I'll continue this some other time. I suddenly faced a blank wall and my right eye is itching.)