I've done it again. I've wasted my time.This is the umpteenth time, I am floundering about with ideas in my head, splaying on my bed like a bloated corpse on its way down the creek, wallowing in the tart indifference—the very same that I show to the idea of a career—that the world around so casually shows towards me.

But I tell you, it's the futility of my game that traps me here, and not a voluntary imprisonment agreement.

I know for a fact that every fabric of my story has been spun by someone other than me, entirely. Patterns upon patterns—that I see everywhere: on the walls, in the drawers, in action of others, and even in my planned reactions—remind me of that very fact.

It's too late to think any less of it, even if I were to try.

Now, I would never dare try.

I am satisfied with the answers that I have found.