Witching hour

I kept staring at the hourglass. I wished I was truly free. Till time continued to weave its web, I knew I was still a fly. What are we more than mere puppets in the hands of time. It has created us sitting on the great white throne facing the earth, with a magical staff in hand, the very same way it shall destroy the world as we know it and the judgement day shall finally dawn..

 Time is the eternal god. All around us. Every moment with us.  And time is running by, there are things to be done, thesis to be written, manuscripts to be scoured, friends yet to be pleased, radio to be heard, newspapers to be read, fucking information overload. I continue to stare. Coffee cup in my hand.

They say the world waits for nobody. It wears you down eventually, every moment brings you closer to the spiralling abyss of being nothing, being a nobody. We need to act soon, make a mark, stumble onto that one idea, the zen moment. Because time is running out.

My earphones are plugged in, no music is playing, it cuts out the noise outside. I hope, if i listen carefully, I shall be able to discern some soft hymns drenched in the noise inside. What do I yearn for? A long lasting bliss, I think. Happiness is fickle, it erupts in short outbursts and then subsides down before you have fully tasted it. No. Something more stationary. If only the hourglass would stop,then I wouldn’t have to be so restless, I wouldn’t have to keep going, I wouldn’t be consumed by the urge to make the most of today followed by the disappointment at the end of the day because I didn’t.

Thinking is a dangerous thing. It makes me question the very meaning of my existence. People try on several hats in college, so did I. But the identity crisis lingers, fucking tenacious grip. I stare hard at the hourglass, will it to halt with all my might. But reality continues to ruin my life.

The silence is comforting, nobody has an answer, why do I bother to question? Perhaps Longfellow got it wrong, Dust thou art, to dust thou returnest, perhaps that WAS written of the soul. It is all nothing but a great big tragedy.After all, happy endings are outfashioned, it is abominable to be infatuated with them.  My thoughts are running wild, but the noises are dying down, light evanescent thoughts breeze through my brain as my eyes grow heavier and my eyelids droop. For the next few hours, I am safe from this accursed world.

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