Ensnared

When the night deepens, when the buzz of the laptop and even the ever-persisting hum of the AC fade, I pick up my finger-acupuncture pen (which in reality does not do much of anything and breaks within two weeks of usage).

There is a certain loneliness (not in the strictly emotional sense of the word) that sets in. In the midst of busyness it persists; in the midst of silence it asphyxiates. It is desperation, that great longing for a departure from the present imperfection of my intangible reality; my abstract postmodern life. It is my failure to stop and gaze at the cerulean sky and savor every inch of that word -- cerulean. It is my loss to overlook the little belle under my feet as I hastily walk past -- everything. It is my ignorance of the intricacies of insect anatomy as they bask in the glory of gleaming grass and kiss the sun -- life.

I speak of nature -- yet there is so much to be grasped, so much to be appreciated -- and -- and 'I just can't seem to find time,' I hear me say. Such is a terrible, nebulous excuse as we all know, yet because of its fluidity we continue to use it and deplete it of its meaning.

Deep inside us, there is a certain longing for freedom -- which we either have failed to nurture or have twisted terribly (making fun of hippies here). Everyone has a bias. As I grow past scrutinizing and psychoanalyzing people/things/situations to most minute details, I grow weary of self and the flawlessly fit and tainted windows that tag along. I long for liberation; trapped inside concrete pavement and engineered structures. Gary Jules echoes my sentiments, as if a fallen ethereal being peeks into a mere mortal's mundane routines.

My heart gains yet another fold of worries at the sheer thought of waking, and my heel another layer of callus as I roam this glorious arena of modern scholarship. My only wish is to return to that pure, primordial state of being.

But I wait.