Note at 60% of humidity

In case you haven't noticed this, I used to know or at least want to know what to prepare for.

Such as, which shirt to wear tomorrow, what to say in the next meeting, or what excuse to use to not go to work. Or, on a creepier level, what embarrassment might jump in and ruin the day, what predicament may befall if someone makes some decision, and what specific mood to prepare to worry about some miserable part of my miserable life.

Prepare for the unprepared. Prepare to be prepared. Prepare for demolition. Prepare for impact.

I liked to think that the world is a whole set of miniature railroad models with trains running on batteries carrying plastic passengers, plastic gifts, plastic joyfulness and shiny plastic bright future. Everything is OK as long as there are rails paved ahead.

As long as I had thought of it before it presents itself.

But my plastic world tumbled down sooner than I had prepared for. It doesn't necessarily mean something dramatically came meddling in my painstakingly maintained balance of hysterics. It just happened, not long ago this year, when somebody made the ticking sound of time louder.

Long story short, I lost the energy, sorry we ran out of rails, our plastic fun ride has to end soon.

And now we are back here. Here on the other side of the planet, thousands of miles away from home, again. I still know where to turn at most of the intersections. I still remember the thrilling sensation of fear when I take the steering wheel. I still feel the scorching heat and the broad quietness. Just this time disorientation becomes thicker and it clouds lower.

I don't know what and where to look. I don't know what and how to prepare. I lost the interest and I don't want to care any more.

So please hold on tight you plastic people on board. From now on we can no longer guarantee where this ride is going. Please keep your plastic bright future in the overhead compartment and feel free to scream.