This year, he had tried many activities that he wouldn't have foreseen himself trying last December. It felt ... strange. Not strange in a bad way, he supposes, but strange in the strange way.
He had written poems and read them to strangers. He had displayed some art at two galleries. He, through some unfathomable twist of fate, am taking part in a business case study competition (and feels woefully inadequate in every group meeting).
In the second part of the year, he began to try. Try harder and wider. He realised he was lapsing into the comfort and monotony of daily life.
How easy it is, to fall into the numbing rhythm. One moment of inattention and months would have passed before he realised precious time was being whiled away. How easy it is, to study, have fun, eat, sleep and pollute the natural environment.
He had been drawn, inexorably, like many others, into the whirlpool of self centric paradigms. He had been sucked into the comfortable existence, mindless and unaware.
He isn't really sure what he's writing now. Streams of consciousness, perhaps. But, it doesn't matter, does it?