Six Months Legal

Cigarettes and a super silent night. There is no summation or conclusion to this. Just a train of thought.

I told a friend I changed my blog because I got sick of the old one and my chamber of thoughts needed a revitalising migration. He retorted, saying, "What do you mean change your blog. You can't change a blog when you didn't have one to begin with." I looked back, an eyebrow raised. "You had a blog. Then you disappeared. Then you created The Quixotic," he said, referring to the seemingly indefinite hiatus I took without notification.

Our conversation developed into a realisation that many mutual friends we've become disconnected from for some reason (we keep a foothold on their lives by reading their blogs), have been writing rather depressive entries of late. Talk of dashed dreams, inspirational blackholes and glacial hearts from too many discarded run-ins with love, these very reminiscent of adolescent disconcertion.

I wrote like that in the army. Amongst the occasional proclamation of hope, I was bleary-eyed from forced and extended stagnancy. I guess that's why I stopped writing in the old place. When restlessness morphed into boredom.

It's a wonder when hindsight frames the last ten months. In perspective, that's two months short of a year since I hung my beret. That's eight months since I first kissed the Angel. That's five months since starting nine-to-fives.

That's half a year since I could walk into an R-rated movie beating my chest, head tipped upward, man(legal) enough. Damn, and I haven't.

Like I said. No conclusion. Just train of thought.