A book is ment to mean something to its author.Either by sheer effort of all the comsuming hours gone into seing a project come to life and be sold,or because of the joy it gave you while writing.
Somehow I have seem to misplace mine.
Where is the joy I once took for granted ?
Why do words mean so little now ?
I am unaware of what may have or not change apart from...well that is another private point of information that only requires myself to know,but even that would not explain such absence of effort from my part.
I have put one name in search on authors,his activity showed absence of 25 days.
Funny of you miss some old faces and others you would barely notice if the person was standing beside you in the underground...Yeah ,funny in a sad way.
Some aspects of human relanshionship lack connection for lack of a better word to describe what I mean to say.But on the rare occassion when I do meet the human being that captivates my attention I tend to stop and alocate that person some time in my so called busy life!
Today is a quite day.I have the weekend off and I shall be out of town.
I feel out of place here.I wonder why ?