Driftwood

A blank verse...

I float by, seeing, swallowing, excreting, respiring, pointlessly. Like driftwood. The more I read, the more disillusioned I am. The more I know, the less I understand. The more I think, the less I believe. So much that I think the happiest amongst us are ones who know not too much, are naïve and have faith- in themselves, in the world, in all of us. Now I live on borrowed prayers, while I listen to the off-tunes of a song whose notes I disparaged. Those that trusted themselves and the universe, I mocked. While in my wisdom, I turned a sour sceptic, a realist and a lost graduate student alone on a Sunday night in the mercury-lit white lab. Feeling almost nothing. No pain, no fear, no hope.

I have always wanted to write. In the peak of my emotion, I have wanted to let my intellect lead me, lest my narrative turn to sop. After that deluge has passed though, I am but a shell, without a story. I never have much to say. I think in trying to discover my interests, I have lost my passions.