People never talk about how mundane life can be. People never talk about the boring in betweens. The slow passing moments that fill up all the moments of every day, crammed in there, one after another, falling down and rushing through everything that you are doing, overwhelmingly uneventful and filling life with a fast clip of nothingness and there’s not meaning to anything. People never talk about that. They never talk about waking up. Just another day. Like the day before it, and the day after it, and while you’re sitting there, wherever you’re sitting, which is exactly where you’re supposed to be sitting. Where you sat yesterday, and where you’ll sit tomorrow, and suddenly you are struck by some strange memory of a you when you were younger and the whole world was strange. And for some reason you thought that every day would be filled with inspiration and beauty. But it’s not, and people never tell you to prepare for that. You’re supposed to prepare for disaster. For crisis. For romance. For children. For car crashes. For stock crashes. For vacations. For Christmas. The world has not prepared you for how utterly irrelevant and pointless everything has all become, so you stare into your cup of whatever it is you drink in order to make yourself feel better, and you tell no one that the world has lost its particular tinge of color. And you hope no one finds out, because isn’t this the big secret that everyone is keeping from each other? That dreams really don’t come true.