Typical Days From A Not-So-Typical Perspective

Once again…

My existence’s mirror for the entire day reflects my quaint tainted image before turning from black to blue, from bleakness to vagueness, from dimness to distinction-from rest to movement. It doesn’t require much more than my hands and mind to confine myself to that realm of consciousness and unconsciousness and color and blackness altogether. As every clock tick solitarily bears witness to every lethargic ounce of yet another passing day, I whisk every drop of time with every strand of reason and whim I wisp.

Only…

Time here is the harshest adversary and the friendliest companion altogether.

Harshest because at times every grain of sand falling at every instant towards the bottom of the hourglass portends the beginning of the end. It is a clash between sanity and time with reason and whim caught up somewhere in the tempests’ gusts if not smashed to pieces after insanity and timelessness settles. It is the struggle of sanity and time against each other with the difference between color and darkness blurred amidst the violent swirls from the titans’ thrusts if not fused altogether from the forces fomenting insanity and timelessness altogether.

Friendliest because at times every grain of sand falling at every instant towards the bottom of the hourglass portends nothing at all. Colors and jargons form a placid sea where consciousness threads eternity and reason and leisure reflect the ripples of crisp clear pools of thought from beneath. A realm devoid of insanity and timelessness is a realm where sanity is consciousness while time is eternity.

And then…

As each stride of the pendulum finds harmony with the hymn of reason, the colors of the whispering haze blend with the soothing sight of the eternal meadows. A walk through the flora of colors and amidst the fauna of leisure is a futile chase of the firmament of infinity supported by the horizon.

Finally…

The setting of the sun ensures the end of that existence in a plane where reason and whim drive me, where the time and sanity dictate existence, where starts are ends and ends are starts as much as stars and ends are themselves altogether. And as the surest mirror to be left unshattered turns from distinction to dimness, from vagueness to bleakness, from blue to black-from movement to rest, I look at the reflection of the same image made more quaint and tainted after. Then to the rest portends unrest as much as something expects…

Nothing.

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