The bar queue

Not even an enthusiastic accountant would have been able to correctly count the amount of times where I’ve say and stared at the blinking black line against a white background, completely devoid of words. The process spins in 3000rpm’s and the thoughts tumble around the blood laden drum that is my brain, but the timer never pings and I can’t ever retrieve my lovely warm, tumbled and freshly washed thoughts and sort them.

For the most part I look normal, but on the inside I’m at mental plane that resembles like the queue to a popular bar a New Years Eve. Rowdy, unpredictable, moving forward way too slowly for my taste, with a sense of uncertainty about how this will feel tomorrow when the first rays of the sun sweep across the city. You may strongly question your decisions.

Maybe it’s a sign that I should write less. Maybe it’s a sign that I should stop with the whole attempt to chronicle my life and just follow along the stream? Don’t reflect, just live! So far I haven’t given up, I’ve just been staring at the little black line, blinking on a white background.

Maybe tequila would help? It IS the solution to surviving bar queues?