White Limbo
This life of mine, if life I can call it, has become a strange affair, a kind of a metamorphosis in which every thing has changed.
Oliver Wendell Holmes once said that it was required of a man that he should share the action and passion of his times, at peril of being judged not to have lived, and for most of my early life I've followed this percept with uncommon faithfulness.
But now of late (the last decade or so) I find myself entangled in a web of days, time passing in a kind of a slow motion, yet seemingly the years flit by and I remain in the same place, unable to flog up interest in the world around me or the people who inhabit it..
I'm much like a meandering river still searching for a sea to unload itself of all that water.
This sort of detachment and apathy sometimes scares me.. but still I doggedly stick to the path
But to what purpose? What end?
The past hunting and future escaping
What was shall not be
Forever shall I thicken this belief
