run ons and [fragments]

Save for far-fetched plans of escape conjured in the wee moments before sleep, nothing significant ever happens in this stepford-y suburbia. Sometimes, I catch glimpses of people slaving away in meager jobs they’ve been both stuck and contented in for years and I think to myself “this will not be me,” but I find small comfort from this intent to digress.

It is achingly honest to own up to the cliché: I have lost myself. Just yesterday, when I read through Random Muses and Nostalgia, I asked myself: what has become of her? When did I lose her? And how? And why?

But too often, I feel too sedated, too resigned to look for answers. And so I resort to think of things that are more practical (practical - something I vowed never to be during my days of staying hungry and staying foolish): finding a job that will pay the bills.