Mortifying Consciousness

I’m unwilling to do anything, to even write, but I force myself to grip the pencil and scrawl across the gleaming pages of my pristine notebook, throwing methodical mannerisms to the wind as I have no patience to bear with a forcefully elegant fountain pen.

…And yet again, I focus on the trivial. But that how is my mind works, my thoughts run. For it is my belief that it only takes a few words and an encompassing perspective to breathe life into the most mundane of things. And so it is – I spend every waking moment trying to create such scenes, in a vain attempt to appease my insatiable desire to feel…well, touched, even inspired.

A mammoth task for someone in the grip of disillusionment.

Disillusionment: a perfect word for describing the very void which everyone faces at some point of their lives and subsequently tries to escape. That vacuum which I’m currently face to face with. The void which speaks of nothing but the bitter, unchanging truth – reality is merely an illusion and this world, our lives are equally transient, expendable and perishable. We who are entangled in the charms of this world are only too aware of the ephemeral form we inhabit and gaze upon everyday in the mirror. And we, as always given to fear, run away, seeking to distract ourselves from our impending certainty – with what, I think I hardly need to illustrate.

It is through such existential ponderings that I have been stripped of all that I have ever known about myself – feeling nothing, unable to relate to anything.

How does it feel to wade through mechanical, repetitive actions merely meant to ensure your survival in the society, knowing you have absolutely nothing to look forward to?

This merely scratches the surface of this limbo-like condition.

However, enough of this morose stuff. My purpose to write was – as a person does during times of crisis – to try and create something that I could revel in, hoping meanwhile it will last long enough to take me through this dark tunnel of a phase to see light at the end. For my being is trained to respond to stimuli and my mind, as fickle as ever, always craves for the unexplored. It must be something profound enough to negate this state of nothingness that I’m presently caught up in.

But then again, what do I even write about?