Shadow Of The Day

Blogging comes upon me in waves. There was a period I was a blogging enthusiast. There was a period (and still having occasional periods) of blog-suicide contemplations. My soul, my spirit, speaks naught of the state in which I currently reside.

Nevertheless, after spitting out fireballs of posts without much meaning, my system is cleansed. Even so, the cleansing is temporal, for as much as sense lives in me, nonsense lives in me like a conficker worm in an external hard disk: it cannot be removed. (now for those more technical, of course the worm can be removed by formatting the external but putting it in equal terms would mean brainwashing me)

Thus, having said that, I proceed now with this post.

Of late, I feel like a ghost. Given, I would have chosen a word less spooky and with more elegance but sometimes, the basic term is the best expression of the mind. Eating is a routine, sleeping is unnecessary, living is labour. Under normal conditions, I eat in a no holds barred manner, to the point of abnormality. I have lost this passion. Eating is to me a duty. Each spoonful of stuff I put in my mouth is just because I have a responsibility to my body. To not let it wither. I love sleep, I still do and always will. But I find it becoming unnecessary and that I can do without pretty much of it. I can stay awake till 5am, sleep for near 5hours, and go the day without naps. I find it hard to sleep. It's like; fear of sleep. The human life is a labour. Don't get me wrong; Lord, I know I still have You. Yet, tis' so hard to live when living is a routine. I refuse to be a machine.

Stop these thoughts in me. Yet, as long as I live, my thoughts live with me. However, I figured out that my thoughts can be alive, but not living. And so, I shut my thoughts up in the prison of my mind, choosing to live each day with blankness and simplicity. And without living thoughts, I'm naught but flesh and bones. A physical body that I do not own, preserved by mere humanity. No, this is not a severe case of boredom, nor depression. Talk to me; you'd find me perfectly happy, normal, and myself. But yet, I ask this question:

Who am I?

My existence ceases with each passing moment. And I question, what is my existence? Why do I exist? Yes, I have heard much; so much, that the answer becomes the problem: it becomes routined. Therefore, I'm no longer seeking for the answer in your mind, one which you want to comfort me with. I'm seeking for something more. Something more than an answer..