This blog has slept in the depths of the earth for a while now. I know not what to write, therefore I do not write. Maybe not knowing what to write is simply an excuse. An excuse to not write. Writing is both a form of catharsis and a rite of passage that continues to bring deeper pain.
The past one year was not worth reading, even if it were faithfully reproduced. He bade farewell without saying a word and from then on, the emotional roller-coaster crashed down death valley. Hell fires raged deep within my soul. Waiting did not bring hope, though it almost destroyed time and all manner of existence.
The hollow men walked the face of the earth, among the ranks of the forsaken. I found their company pleasing but membership with them was not a possibility in my shattered world full of impossibilities and futile time-bound responsibilities.
I continue my walk of aimless searching, sometimes stopping to make sense of the strangeness that draws my soul into the phantasmagoria of the nightscape. The myriad of sleeping images and the languishment in the air bring back the lost appendages and idle fancies of yesterday's passionate but now passionless dreams.
I am still struggling to make sense of this human exi(s)tence that has been thrusted upon me, an unwilling taker. Why should I continue life in a lifeless space that is full of the rules of living that suffocate the very core of being? Why do they continue? And continue to make unreasonable demands on runaway souls like mine? Nothing holds up anymore...absolutely nothing.
After writing, the waiting continues, in wordless eternity. The deep ennui that is the obelisk of modern life speaks cold comfort to all who hope in the future. And I continue my journey on foot into the land where the waking sleeps.
