Unmaking Caliban

Every other alternating week you think about the great nothingness, the big void, the end of all ends, the thing we usually call death. It's not out of dread, depression, despair or anything. Those linger on even if you take the strongest sip of absinthe to hallucinate otherwise. To exist is to deal with it's pain. Maybe you're not adjusted right for a world that gets busy trying so much to live.

The feeling is in general towards a place that has nothing to offer to life. It's like a slow march towards the end itself being sped up, especially when you live somewhere like this town. The people here seem static, almost zombified, even after so much hustle and bustle of life. There's so much activity yet nothing to do, only with rare moments of genuine liveliness. That too depends on your social status and group. Sad state of affairs would be an understatement honestly.

It's through all the things you see, do and feel yet not find any lively rhythm of. It's that uncanny feeling of breathing yet not quite living. It's a weird kind of decay in motion you can't quite describe.