Monday 6 March 2017

Still

Like grains of coloured sand strewn upon a glass canvas, a blur landscape of my days has begun to form, its beauty determined by the strokes that come flowing from the fated hands of time. Must all seasons die away without ceremony? The gradual change we fail to acknowledge day to day eventually baffles us when we open our eyes. We come to realise that the season has abandoned us, overnight. But of course, the way the grasses bow by the sidewalk has been shifting everyday.

After a tiring day when one is finally deserving of some sleep, one falls back into bed contented, paying no attention to the quality of what cushions the defeat. No time to enjoy the pleasant details of refinement. Only the escape to a numbing sleep is desired. That is what it means to live a life one simply gets used to. It's not hurtful, there's no void-- it just can't be put into words.

I suppose that's why this post has a film of uncertainty plastered over it. There is this listless breath of the ordinary that breathes through, because other than feeling worn out, torn, and motionless, there really exists no other abstraction. My lack of talent is as apparent as the lack of meaning in my life.

What I want to express is the stagnation of being satisfied. A shrug of the shoulders and I can leave the whole world behind.

Sigh.

So I have gone back to wondering how big of a sigh would kill me, and how much sighing is needed for one to run out of breath. Such is the thoughts that run through my brain when I let out a sigh.

I'm not unhappy. The glass will always just be half full.




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