Normality.

I’m not the first to say that being normal is boring. Because it genuinely is.

Being normal is the exact equivalent of being boring.

Sometimes I look up and around me and instead of seeing people I see these vapid, boring, human-sized cardboard cutouts of people, with nothing to say that isn’t copy-paste from previous conversations. It genuinely scares me that some people aspire to be just like that. Invisible to the creative eye.

It genuinely scares me more than I used to want to fit in like that. Like a piece of a plain white puzzle, with nothing even remotely interesting going on.

I’m glad I came to my senses.

 

I find it hard sometimes to place what’s bad and what’s just interesting, because my life has reached a point where anything out of the ordinary is undoubtedly fascinating to me.

I know that this sort of lack-luster lifestyle won’t last much longer thanks to my upcoming exams, but I don’t know if I’m sad to see this lame slump go or if I’m glad to be doing something more exciting than usual.

Because sometimes I just want to be boring.

Sometimes I wanna just lie on the couch eating chips and watching The Office until I pass out, dead asleep.

Sometimes I wanna listen to music and watch clouds fly by my window.

Sometimes I wanna sit entrapped in blankets with a good book.

And those are all objectively boring.

But I don’t feel even a shred of boredom during them.