Again, as predictably the sun sets, longing stirs easy with idealisms tonight, dreaming to develop convictions that once were, but watching dreams instead float, to disappear like a wisp into my subconscious.
The Obstacles Posed By Life
Reality has many obstacles to what the writer wishes right now. I want to work, to purchase a laptop and to edit these memoirs their shape, but compared to read revisions of old victorious days, modern reality is so contrast a difference. Reading back is nice motivation but to relay updated thoughts and unrealistic expectations here only seems a wasteful circular.
One may even argue these memoirs were an unproductive, impractical loop inviting an atmosphere inclined to hopelessness, failure and depression. But for years it has served a purpose, somehow.
Keeping A Record Of Goals
Reality is so different however, its obstacles, many mine owned. Many faults are had to correct notwithstanding before a streak more positive permits, and it starts not in daily submittals but in believing that it is in me to aspire for more than these walls and a forgotten, lost soul.
I have to overcome mental obstacles like apathy and the obstacle of being abandoned poor. I have to stop reliance and start a path to self-esteem. While it seems silly to think of writing an agenda or keeping to a budget, it may just save me from yet more deprived despair.
Reading Back On The Lost Years
Television and computer games are my happy mediums, but soon, defeatist complacency will change. As for now, reading back on the lost years episodes of my memoirs proves for some mediocre culture to bide time. So we leave on this note, until next we meet.
Observing one last opinion before the pillow meets my head; the days of the lost years were very practical a happy bliss. A common theme back in those days used to be my married relationship because it was the center of my world, which made me a better person. I noticed when reading back my vacant-minded easygoing nature and the way in which my memoirs were written, in days where the writer conscience was not even established in me.
My memoirs back then used to be an enriching accessory, a fated choice that characterized depth before its distinct apparatus overwhelmed me. Now my memoirs – though consoling – seem more however like a distraction. It is these failures that keep me in two minds about its time-concocted art.
Motivation To Write Has Changed
Anyway, my point in relation to the lost years days is that it would be an uphill ridiculous for me to rally any sort of motivation to my cause for the simple fact that it is too little, too late. I still had a chance back then to motivate my way back to how it was but nowadays the leap is a league, spent on little faith to talk the talk and follow through. My last paragraph attempts it, but upon reading back on an era golden in the lost years, there are stark differences and a wider gap.
Anyway, while the chance is neither as great nor my element as indicative, it is possible to pull myself from out of this mess. But self-faith is a lot harder to achieve now than past convinced surety.
When life fell into my lap there was no need for a motivator.
But happy days are over now, and this is as real as it is.
So either the endurance is within me to struggle or else there is no struggle left in me, and all my days are lost in contrite endings, ending so and so with never freshness to begin.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until today, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.
