I watch my life from a corner of the room, like it belongs to someone else entirely. I want to write about the mundane which is so stubbornly ordinary and predictable and yet, somehow, it still feels like it means something. I want to document it all.Some days, I rot in bed, telling myself I'll do all the things I know I never will. Other days, I'm perfecting my chotpoti recipe like as it the fate of the world depends on it and sharing stolen glances and stories with strangers on local transport, wondering if I'll ever cross their mind again. I write it all down, not because it's special, but because if I don't, it might disappear-and with it, so might I. 
What else is a confused protagonist supposed to do?