Lost Time. I come home and do nothing and the result... le temps perdu.
I hate it and I love it. There is something about doing nothing that holds such an interest for me when I am doing something. And once I am doing nothing, something suddenly seems incredibly enticing. There's clearly no logic behind that. Though there rarely is any logic behind most of my thoughts. Thinking about it though where's the fun in being logical all the time? Imagination fuels the most complex discoveries. Thinking like no one else even dreams. Thats how we move forward. Everyone already knows what I'm saying, its just I'm saying it, thats what the difference is. I'm bothering to write down my mundane ideas and experiences. I always have a moment when I'm writing a post when I think how silly it really is because hardly anyone reads it and there's really nothing of consequence in it, but then I think of how Anne Frank says that her diary is just the musings of a teenage girl and how it is completely unimportant and how very wrong she was. And how much we rely upon her diary to accurately depict what trials her family and others in similar situations suffered through. And then I think there is no way my writings will ever be even a hundredth of what hers were, but still if she found it possible even to write a little bit, I can. I can write something trite and and unintelligible . I would never dream of comparing myself or my writing to Anne Frank's, but I do think its important to write down something, leave something behind. And in all my nothingness I think these things. So maybe its not such lost time after all. Or maybe Lost time just isn't so bad. Le temps perdu.
