The Floating Time

The Floating Time
              Dali+Persistence+of+Time          Those mornings, dull and penetrating, when the void is carved into your soul, hollow in your remains, you search for salvation. A sense of purpose, one amongst the many overly preoccupied, you wonder, what if nothing is done, what if all the hustle just stops and remains silent for a glimpse of a second. How would it be like to have an empty life with a revived soul. what if you breath silence that fills your lungs with satisfaction, fills your soul with life and grants you a sense of purpose like no other, a sense of self-awareness, a sense of redemption.
I sit for a second that I long to sneak out of my overburdening life schedule and I imagine an alternative reality. One where I drown in my own presence and feel the achievement of the motionless. No work, no actions, no hustling, no task oriented activities. Imagining the free essence of self. Roaming around in total absurd aimlessness. Yet satisfying the most profound desires of being. Being free, being loose, being clean and neat, pure and virgin, just the mere reflection of being itself. simple, just and meaningful. Existence as it should be, as it simply is.
A second, out of for a whole day of chores and supposedly loaded with lively activities, and you spend the rest of the day, of the week, of your life, wondering, struggling, striving, merely to seek a glimpse of those rare, unique and previously valuable strings of moments. moments that comes by few, that we rejoice a little, long for, for long, and hold dear for a while longer, those are the moments we live by, through, and for.
Then, a bit by bit we drown in our own casualties, derive from the beam of the universe into our hallow graveyard, where we have drawn ourselves in sheer misery and the dream of a happier world, a world we know so intimately, encounter often. yet, . Surviving never fully living, neither counted amongst the dead.
Those mornings, you come to see life as it is, life as it’s always going to be. that’s all there is to it, and that’s what you try to content yourself with, considering yourself one of the lucky few who genuinely, sincerely and for a while, lived.
By T.G
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