in nubibus

It is peculiar how exhaustively the sentiments of love, sorrow, friendship and hate expire without a shade of their former existence. Passion dissipates in gratification or transmutes in suppression. I am far more stoical to everything. I expect the bare minimum; passively accept whatsoever gets thrown on my path, less disillusioned when expectations shatter, realizing the worthlessness of certain things we value and assured that most affairs yearned for, would prove valueless and ordinary when acquired.

I am at peace with myself, not in the state of optimum elation but unmutilated by specters of obscured past or the opaque, ambiguous future; past and future are for the moment identically forgotten.

Whenever I looked around I saw life, absolute and replete in all its infinite forms, the life that disclaimed me. This existence wasn’t called living, with mind helplessly manacled and trammeled in events which can not mercifully be wrapped into oblivion but which constantly deter and exasperate you by resurfacing in varied forms even in the present.

Down the familiar chambers of perception, I now sense my sanity ebbing with the compelling movement of currents drawn in by the loss of everything I’d once cherished and across these glittering rivulets of instinct, my resolve, a deplete and stark amateur is torturously attempting to swim, in the process achieving certain degree of mastery and at the same time forlornly abandoned to being transported to the ocean.