Yesterday is here.

I am in a nympholepsy to have found "Come On Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runner And The Emerald Express (what a long name for an artiste) and have been playing it for the umpteenth time now. Why I adore this, is that it trickles this nostalgic feeling of youth, something which can never be vividly recalled now. It's not too distant, but neither anywhere near. However whatsoever, the most common conversation at work which you can find my name being mentioned a couple of times or more, is that how I don't look my age. Younger, thank you. And don't hate me cause everyone is starting to notice those subtle (or coarse) lines along the corners of your eyes, or when you frown.

Write - writing is a passion. To be able to write is a dream. To be writing countless products which errr, well, dances to and fro to the same tempo and progression - humdrum. Humdrum is definitely not a set of drums and neither does it mean drumbeats. I was sarcastically reminded not to use big words every so often this afternoon which seriously had me doubted my indifference. Maybe when I start to replace "happy" with "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" whenever one asks how I'm feeling and only until then, I can assure you I have "dictionary" as an app on my iPhone and it's bookmarked on my browser and it's always around whenever I need to do a little writing here and there.

So I told Simon I need a spiritual guru cause I'm starting to think the world hates the world. And the world thinks its problem is the world. And that the problems from Venus, Mars or Pluto are of no concern to the world. But the world wants Venus, Mars and Pluto to hear her out. But Venus can only provide a listening ear, Mars can only offer solutions and Pluto can only gives her opinionated advice.

Okay, I am lost here. I don't want to write anymore. I need a voice, really.