Constancy is like numbness. It cannot be perceived; it is a flat line of inactivity.
What can be sensed is flaws and fluctuation.
And sometimes, I’m numbed. This numbed state of my mind leads me very easily into a state of comfortable deterioration. It makes me feel at home in my comfort zones and that is what makes me unreasonably restless.
As always, I need aberrations in routine. I want unstructured, collapsing seconds of my time to actually be crystallising into memories and moments.
Fractured ideas need not be mended. Crumbling emotions need not be helped. A chaotic being does not need to be clamped into standardisation.
I see the numbness of senses as the atrophy of creation in my head. I see dull existence not far off from inhabiting again into my mundane breaths and monotonous living.
I write because I must. And I write today for the same reasons. The need arises out of the periodic unrest i keep falling into. When complacent conditions evoke a sense of chaos in me, when smooth situations create strife in my head and heart- that is when I know, I know that the dust needs to be shaken off, I know that old skin has to be withered away.
Constancy is not my hearth, not my settlement. Momentum must exist, but if it is unaffected, untouched by the force of unrest in my soul, if it is not erratic and uneven every now and then- it must be followed by the dampening of my breaths. It would lead to slow and steady ageing of my heart.
My years would begin to count backwards instead of unfolding forwards.
I realise, through writing and art, how even within containers of status and normalcy a certain entropy can exist. I found my entropy in words, my freedom in flaws, my break of numbness in fluctuations.
With the flourish of these last few letters, you see, lies a liberating feeling of being. And when I end, ironically, I begin to feel that I am alive.
This happens to be a page off my diary. For the past few…months, shall I say? I have been in a sort-of-writer’s block. It isn’t exactly that. I classify this phase of time as a feeling of restlessness; a constant sense of doing nothing with my time although there isn’t exactly anything of the sort.
Do you feel this way, that you could be doing so much and you know what you might be doing but you’re somehow still stuck with doing the same old things that wear your day into the night. You don’t feel accomplishment when you finally go to sleep at night. You are not satisfied, and it drives you crazy with a restlessness you can’t put your finger on?
You’re so restless because you didn’t create anything; you didn’t write, or draw, or paint, or made even a tiny little difference. And it makes you feel completely useless. The funny thing is, the restlessness makes you unable to do anything that would drive away the restlessness.
But the background behind what I wrote is this little phase I have been in. Tell me, am I the only one with these thoughts here?