When this and that is all you have

I often suffer from bouts of utter uselessness, it is often that am left vacant with several minutes of joblessness, it is then when I question my lack of purpose, only to realise how vain is my effort. Swift in motion are people around me, when jargonised are called colleagues, seem to be immersed in what I reckon is work! How I wish I would not be seated on the armchair and toil instead. The swank interior gets me nauseous now, the flash of artificial light blinds my sight and lulls my mind, the noisy aisles flutter alive with endless giber of your life and mine. The smell of machine coffee is not encouraging, corporate stink pervades this hell, what am I spinning here is as stupid as a dog chasing his tail.
The utility of this blog is a topic I have mulled over, till it ate away sufficient moments of my boredom inflicted days. Is this the place where intelligentsia reins or is this the swamp for amateurs trying to make statements that are partly profound, partly an effort of reading profound. Is this the dumping yard of emotional junk, or plain re-run of a flopped thought.
Is this the place where ideas converge? Or where ideas are dissected till they are naked to be called a crude one, but of course. Or is it the turf for those wordy gyaan gurus who never run dry of enlightening the lesser mortals, including I. Earnestly I don’t know where I stand, I write because I’ve no other occupation in hand. Conceited statements, I try hard to construct, no specific reason, just an attempt at being different. Each time I write I reaslise how ill read I am, how less fed with creativity I am.
Did you not know, I wear the perfume of discontent, I can’t smell it, and others are fed up of it.
I might be looked upon as someone who is perennially peeved, but the fact of the matter is that I am on an exploration spree. Am afraid but I call it self-discovery.
I am presumptuous, I am lackadaisical on almost every count, I am the celluloid that stays blank without any conclusion. I grow with the thought that life is yet to begin and all this, trying-to-live jazz was just the foreplay leading to ‘that’ action I call living-for-real.
Am I killing the piece? Do I care the least? Words come cheap, thought is expensive. Like a raven perched on the electric wire on a damp monsoon day, I am lost, I sway, waiting for a spark that will sustain the breeze and burns to stay.
For lack of providing lucidity to this piece, I take the credit for being just Me. World is a busy place, just that work never gets attracted to me.
----Yes am bored, I feel retired and old….