That state of blandness, within which the mind accomodates rival, non-coherent thoughts with bouts of sudden quiet intermitently striking the thoughts to maintain order in the midst of seeming uncontrollable chaos.
When good and evil have found in your mind a nidus to finally decide agelong battles of supremacy. The one moment you harbour pious thoughts, only to find towards it’s end the evil basis for which piety serves as its means. You have begun to question the basis of most of what you have held as right before now and wonder if there truly is anything wrong with ‘the wrong’.
This isn’t the case of the idle mind being the devil’s workshop, rather it is one bombarded at all times with conflicting thoughts. The restless mind, that puts up the quiet mien of a satisfied and contented soul. This one soul is on fire, and not for anything in particular, but for many things focuslessly floating in reckless abandon.
Sitting at that edge, the defining moment before slipping off into the hades of the mind, of no return in most cases. When one dies to the world and everything becomes bland with one just content to just let time fly by, while waltzing right in the midst of it unnoticed and noticing nothing.
The cocoon has become labyrinthine, and the more one wants to get out of it, the more one’s drawn into it. That which used to be the source of strength has become the loophole for weakness. Frustrated by unfulfilled dreams and unattainable aspirations, the mind wanders into the fertile field of despair, of what could’ve being, of opportunities lost and wasted sacrifices.
Light has suddenly turned to darkness, and the tunnel one once traversed in search of the proverbial light at it’s end has suddenly become a cave, for which going further leads to the embrace of hungry cubs and away from it, to the joyous welcome of a salivating super feline.
In this valley of the shadow of death, the lack of fear is necessitated not by the recognition of the presence of a higher power, but mainly by indifference borne out of the mind of the suicidal. One who thinks to stoically embrace death, to gain life.
Unfortunately, though one beckons, death will do him one no such honour, just so it could maintain it’s dread as that which strikes while one finds life most pleasurable (atleast for the majority of the populace).
This one has created a parallel universe for himself, where all that seemed impossible to get in the real world is abundantly available on a platter in the nether, the realization of which consoles him when suffers hurt brought about by lack in the real.
The sober mind is in turmoil because there’s no mind altering drug to ease the pain, or clear the mind howbeit for the shortest while. Even the reason for the abandonement of the bacchanal means of escape faces scrutiny amongst the myriad of unsolved queries and unanswered questions.
Destiny and fate laughs the one in the face, his response is laughter. The least one could do as one is so much the Man to shed a tear, to or for mere inanities.