At some point of time in your life, you do end up asking yourself, "What is this for? For whom am I doing this?" Then you go read up on the six wives of Henry the VIIIth, chase a bee around your ten feet by ten feet room, and in a moment of epiphany, you give up.
Which is pretty much what happened with blogging and I.
Few months later, you are removing paint from your face, wondering how in the world you would cope with everything April would be bringing you, and the fine lines, sort of a harbinger of the wrinkles yet to come, talk to you. "Remember, how you did it all those years ago? When you had terrifying examinations and you would just rant about yogurt and cats and shoes and how much you loved purple and people would not tell you that you needed a life. Do you think you can go back to that?"
I think I must begin again. Even if the love for purple has mellowed down to love for absolutely nothing in particular. Even if cats are now avoided due to bitter memories. Even if Johnny Depp lies forgotten for a new-found love for Benedict Cumberbatch. Cumberbatch... If only one could project requited emotions on actors who lived thousands of miles away...
One digresses. One must commit, even if it is to writing about how hard it is to go cross-eyed. If life gives you steady, normal days with absolutely no insanity in them, one must incentivize it. If you know you have to blog about it later on, you will hunt it down. And kick butt at it.
In TV parlance, season 3, here we go.
