Things have changed.
Honestly, I don’t remember exactly when I stopped wanting it. It seems like a new world. In fact, every morning, I wake up in a faraway planet, where faces mean something else everyday. And yet, all these seems strangely familiar, - like a déjà vu. I feel I have seen this loneliness somewhere. I can’t remember when, I can’t remember how…… but it was there. Perhaps, it was always a part of me.
But then again, there is this feeling of running out of time. I had an appointment, a very important one, but I can’t remember with whom or when. All I remember is I’m terribly late. Like the rabbit in wonderland, the hole goes on, and makes me float. I cannot decide if I’m depressed, and sorrow still seems only an option. I never expected feelings to be a conscious choice. And yet, here I am………alone with my questions.
I never knew questions could be so chilling….so addictive. An individual question, of course, never wants one to know its answer. It makes its existence unnecessary. Nevertheless, I’m losing the endless battle with my questions. Somewhere out there, are the answers, but I just can’t wake up. Making any sense doesn’t seem to make any sense any more. What is the purpose? What does sense have to offer someone, who cannot even make the rabbit hole end?
The pen is running on the paper, relentless, dissecting my sanity with the characteristic aloofness. Its amusing, - watching it.
Maybe, given another world, we could have been friends.
Anyway, said all that, I still have time. Its running out, but its there. Much like the rabbit hole, it doesn’t rest. The moments passed always comes back to suffocate me, to make me late. Being late, in a way, is like being born. Its reason lies in the past, yet its purpose is incomplete without a future.
In fact, that’s how I feel. I’m tired of being born every moment.
Honestly, I don’t remember exactly when I stopped wanting it. It seems like a new world. In fact, every morning, I wake up in a faraway planet, where faces mean something else everyday. And yet, all these seems strangely familiar, - like a déjà vu. I feel I have seen this loneliness somewhere. I can’t remember when, I can’t remember how…… but it was there. Perhaps, it was always a part of me.
But then again, there is this feeling of running out of time. I had an appointment, a very important one, but I can’t remember with whom or when. All I remember is I’m terribly late. Like the rabbit in wonderland, the hole goes on, and makes me float. I cannot decide if I’m depressed, and sorrow still seems only an option. I never expected feelings to be a conscious choice. And yet, here I am………alone with my questions.
I never knew questions could be so chilling….so addictive. An individual question, of course, never wants one to know its answer. It makes its existence unnecessary. Nevertheless, I’m losing the endless battle with my questions. Somewhere out there, are the answers, but I just can’t wake up. Making any sense doesn’t seem to make any sense any more. What is the purpose? What does sense have to offer someone, who cannot even make the rabbit hole end?
The pen is running on the paper, relentless, dissecting my sanity with the characteristic aloofness. Its amusing, - watching it.
Maybe, given another world, we could have been friends.
Anyway, said all that, I still have time. Its running out, but its there. Much like the rabbit hole, it doesn’t rest. The moments passed always comes back to suffocate me, to make me late. Being late, in a way, is like being born. Its reason lies in the past, yet its purpose is incomplete without a future.
In fact, that’s how I feel. I’m tired of being born every moment.
2 comments:
But isn't there something refreshing about being born every moment? About rediscovering life every second?
what if you don't get the moment to rediscover? what if its just the first shock? Again, and again, and again....
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