No, I don’t really have that much to say anymore. As I’ve confessed before, inspiration necessitates the presence of a certain…lack. You desire something that’s out of reach, so you attempt to recreate it in a parallel reality. A very common state of mind for us hard-to-please humans. Still, life occasionally keeps us too occupied for melodramatic self-reflection. Are we happier this way?
Or just shallower?

I won’t pretend I’ve got all the answers. Time flies; we’re never completely satisfied or we’d find no reason to keep trying; we’re never totally hopeless or we’d quietly walk away from this world. Perhaps we have forgotten what we'd been waiting for, but we’re still here, and that’s what matters in the end.

What is the written equivalent of small talk? I’m struggling to keep the monologue flowing. Not an easy task for a stubborn- though often inadequate- perfectionist. Being around people on a daily basis brings out a different side of me. More at ease, possibly more superficial, yet capable of dealing with real life situations efficiently- unlike that terrified, introverted snail I tend to become in solitary and sun-starved periods of time.

The snail thinks more, lives less. It carries the weight of the universe on its shoulders. It might be wiser, but moves too
slowly for its own good.

See, I did it again.
Shutting up is, indeed, harder to achieve than talking.