The Problem Is

Being alone in the bedroom where I had spent days staring at the ceiling reminds me of pseudo-independence. What a sobering thought. It might be true that I am left without anybody to take care of, no errands to do, no reminders of time and its passage. But at the same breath, reading so many books doesn't make sense in this frame of mind. All I ever think about are worthless things, craving for stuff I don't really need, like playing Warcraft or writing a story with a single fragment in mind: "Contrary to forecasts", which I find intriguing, or just thinking about the typhoon, hoping for another work-from-home stint this morning, more time to cook some kimchi-and-tofu soup my Dad and I have been planning to do since March. It's very counter-productive. I can read more pages in a fourteen-hour flight than a three-day stay in this room.