When body starts to dismantle, we shiver in fear of our inescapable escape from this world. Our body and mind starts to deteriorate but a tinker of our faltering consciousness reminds us about his return to the unity. Saying a final goodbye it leaves on our own. But a question still prevails who was it? We always consider it our own, someone who belongs to us. We don't know anything about it. Who it is? What it really came for? The only thing that we know about it is that it came to our notice when we started to inquire about our own existence, existence of this world. It disguised itself as us but slowly I got to know that we are distinct. Like a mother I got impregnated with it. I fostered him with knowledge and awareness. Society been its ancillary guide he grew up to be me . Completely overwhelmed by its presence I forgot about myself. I considered it to be me but he turned out to be mean and leaving me alone now I contemplate about my being. Who am I ? This question lingers all the time. Begging me for an answer. But I cant give him an answer. Like a hollow vessel I wait for somebody to come and fill me with its desires and bait. But as my conscious withers, it can't bring new feathers to fill my life with colors. I try to latch on to my memories but that too are fading, discoloring . I cant find direction amidst this void. Cant see nobody but myself as a reflection of dark giving birth to colors which left me . Now I am on my own , this whole dark belongs to me I guess but we always keep our darkness under the dark cloaking it with responsibilities, god and purpose. We glorify our own existence which is so futile and insignificant in comparison to this colossal dark. I have finally lived my life been a realized middle finger to the infinitive. I now shall return to my home.
Confines of the essence. Giving a scent of changing effervescence. When nothing makes sense. Going feral trying to construct bounds, building a big fence. But the effervescence of the changing seasons marks the end. When the fervor melts. Thing which once were started to lose its essence. A sense of dread seems to have no end. Every last relic of the ever present's presence's remains absent. Everything goes in shambles. Trading the places with the one who writes fables. When an instantiation becomes the writer. It couldn't end all the things which were. Depth of an instantiation fall short off the essential. Their impacts aren't pivotal. Only a reminder of a power. Which could be harnessed by the unjaded.
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