There was always some idea of some world that wasn't dull grey. Some
world of definite action, where even the leaves mattered, where
everything was imortant and everything was up to me.

Mostly, it isn't. Mostly, I don't matter. Mostly, the only thing needed
is a drudge. Maybe a happy, interested in stuff kind of drudge. Yet
either happy or not, still insignificant.

This life is not part of a great story. If any story fits, maybe it's
this one:


I sleep, and I awaken.

When I wake up, I see that the floor is dirty, so I get the broom and
sweep up.

Each day, the broom is less effective. When the broom no longer works, I
get a new broom.

I play games to pass the time.

At some point, it all ends.


That's about it. Bills, studies, pursuits, chases, causes, arguments,
relationships: all things are either dirt to be swept, broom to sweep
with, or games to play.