#2. Fail to realise

And I’m divided between two doubtful pleasures, or, to be exact, the two evils, the lesser of which is usually recommended to be chosen. It turned out that I can’t help being late in big cities – and, strange as it may seem, lost in small ones. And if it can be somehow explained in the first case, the reasons for the second phenomenon are thoroughly hidden from me.

But it has some nuances even with this being constantly late. It is generally the lack if motivation, that is suspected to be at its heart: if you are never late for a plane or a train, it means that you can arrive in time, the problem is that just in most cases you – or your left heel, whatever, – needn’t do it. Your conscience stay daydreaming deep inside, never willing to wake up for such small “occasions”. But… he who is late is always wrong. And, what is more, it’s not that simple to give this bad habit up. No matter how much I try, I fail. Because even when I succeed in leaving early, there is always something wrong with traffic. Well, it’s always something up with it, but when I happen to be so foolishly proud of myself to have so much time left before the beginning of a-very-important-meeting, something extraordinary is for sure to occur and just spoil everything.

But it is to be changed; sooner or later I’ll do it. My every departure will be as if the one for a plane. “On time or die”, as a friend of mine suggested, - the way a samurai would say.

As for getting lost, it’s even more complicated. It’s above me. I’m practically always precise with guessing the right direction – it’s a sort of intuition, I think. But when it comes to small areas, the limits of which I can easily imagine, I lose my way in broad daylight at once.

Oh, what a bore I am today… Tired even of myself, but it’s just that the fifth season has begun for me. It’s difficult to be precise explaining this state, but it’s like finding yourself in a morass: being slowly sucked without any desire to decide whether you want to fight or you’re just too tired. It’s just like stress and apathy, insensibility and disgust at the same time. Even fall, my favourite season of the four surely existing, is useless. Or it’s just that I’m helpless.