Toast, coffee and budu

I am trying to jumpstart productivity and complete my Critical Appreciation assignment, weeks before its deadline — but every fifteen minutes or so, I find myself ending up staring at my own legs. Goddamn vain.

There’s this inane worry of my tan fading. And an inaner worry that my worry represents more than the superficial. What if in the long term, I can never change, nor can others embrace change? What if reverting back to our roots is so intrinsic to us that change is simply a vulgar aggravation?

I wonder if I am reading too much between the pigments. Literature can’t be healthy if it makes the imagination madder.