irony lies around every corner, unless you're a native. oh but there is sincerity and a beautiful kind of determination in the spaces between the vagrants and petty thieves.
one can only endeavour to string together some meaning, some validation of the every day. translation is like some overlooked pinnacle towards cohesion, a craving that goes unheard.
unheralded, arrives a self-awareness about a dependency on convenience. 'make do' is like an unwanted and inescapable trend. and i am almost disappointed in myself like that.
fatigue is almost a fixed state of being. working everyday, repetition, repetition. bleakly waiting for insomnia to set in. these extensively vivid dreams are almost just as damaging.
but amongst the painted-over shit, i find some kind of inspiration, a desire to write. to expand the mind despite circumstances. to find solace in something that cannot be touched by grubby hands.
there is an undeniable homesickness. and a desire for time to quicken, for the brighter-looking future to arrive sooner. without the sense of satisfaction, the now, the moment is quite lost and almost wasted.
a needed reminder: this period of struggle, is a means to achieve an end. and the simplicity of a smile goes a long way.
progress has been made. no longer am i so fixated on the past. my old attachments are but memories stored away in the aft. my past achievements however, remind me of what i'm capable. self-underestimation is like a familiar habit.
i'm learning a great deal, assuredly so. this realisation might come later, in another context, one which leaves space for reflection and fine-tuning. just have to endure the onslaught, the price, till then.