Morning Melancholia

Every morning is different. Yet, each one is of a certain type. 

Some are silent, some are noisy. Some are wet and some are dry. Some are hot and some are cold. 

Some remind you your own past: a beautiful day in your past, perhaps. That is nostalgia suddenly aroused within by the morning. I love such mornings. Remembering the past makes me feel that I have been around for such a long long time. 

Some mornings are lazy. You would want to sleep more, only to feel never satisfied! 

Have you ever experienced anything ethereal? That you sense when you lie on the bed, alone, awake, your mind calm and restful, your eyes closed? You can sense the world beyond your eyelids. I cannot express that feeling in words. That is why it is ethereal! Indescribable! How would I love to keep myself in that state forever! 

No, but that is impossible.

Nothing is permanent. To be permanent is against the nature. It is against the universe. The universe is dynamic. The cosmos are dynamic. The nature is dynamic. 

All the happy moments are also like that. I can't keep them with myself. I don't own them. I lose them, always. Perhaps, it is because I lose them that they seem to be worthy. It is only after I lose them that I realise I was happy! 

Am I repeating myself in my writings? Don't I have anything new to say? This may be my paradigm. I may be stuck within me. Do I want to escape? But where to? There's no escape for me from myself. So it seems. There's no exit. So it seems. 

Life is a constant flow. The more you're integrated with the flow, the easier your life will be! You'd be happy, contented! 

Really? 

No, I can't believe so. Because, life is to never feel contented. Life is freedom. Freedom is an eternity of discontent. Contentment and freedom cannot coexist. No, they cannot. Life is a big lake, maybe as big as a sea; maybe a sea itself. You can only integrate yourself with the waves on the surface. Waves that you mistake for a flow! Beneath the surface, invisible to the beholder, chaos are always present in the form of random under-currents. They are your discontent. Deep below there! 

No, I am not repeating myself.... Taat is somtin neu thet I havv juts writtet. I om naut repaatttig miselph. I am creattign mysolg. I kmoww thqt I am nott wrjttjng preoparly; jou mey fynt id difikultt to reod. I finn id difgicalt to wrifte tou. My diffcluty rpresett my diskondett. Thay represett, nott mai lakc of defire to ritte, batt my dasire bieng diffeeted. My defaetaid dzyres: my lfe's untercorrants! 

HIT!