Tired.

I am so tired of sitting here and trying to figure out stuff. Maybe I can’t write. But if I can’t write, what am I going to do in life. I always thought writing will be my source of necessities, and luxuries if I reach that stage ever.

Maybe I really need to start focussing and give us lazying around totally. I wish I had read books. Now I can’t take out time to read, with my job. I never used to so furiously bite my nails earlier, that my fingertips go white. Maybe it’s a nervous reaction. Reactions, maybe.

People say burnout really occurs soon in advertising. But I think this is not burnout. I maybe am not a copywriter at all. People don’t believe me when I tell them that I am unable to write. They are so used to reading flowery meaningless shit written by me all their lives, which was so complex for them understand, yet no one ever told me and just aimlessly appreciated it. No one ever spoke that it was difficult to understand all that shit.  ONE criticism would have made my career probably.

It is like I am shouting in a room full of people, on the top of my lungs, and no one is even turning their head.  All I am saying is that I am unable to write. How difficult is this to understand? I hate the world right now. I hate my job. I hate being relocated to Mumbai. I hate travelling. I hate music. I hate…writing.