They are inadequate, sometimes, numbed and silent. I cannot find the weight of my emotions in words more often than I would like. What words can describe the feeling of elation that passes through my body like the periodic pump of air from a ventilator’s actions? Is it elation? Or am I feeling wave after wave of liberation as I sit throughout the day, unable to concentrate on coursework because I am too tired, too hungry and too delirious?


I have put much store by them in the past, and to an extent I still do. I still weigh my words as much as possible, and yet, there are times when they are bland. I have a list of drafts and a whole lot of articles and passages and ideas that I would love to incorporate into a book but each time I try to work them into something readable, I understand the futility of verbiage. Can you describe the true euphoria of witnessing a sunset? We know the intrinsic beauty of sunsets and we co-relate descriptions with memory.


They are inadequate now, impotent somehow. I cannot find words to describe myself now. What do I believe in? I have succumbed to temptations and stubbornness but I know that deep down, every impulse is dulled now. Every decision I make is thought out. There is a word that the asexuals and aromatics like to use, Lithoromantic. It basically describes a person who doesn’t want love reciprocated. I don’t have any evidence to back up the claims of the dynamic between two individuals, but I know that in some ways I fit the description. I like women, and I lust after them, but I don’t want any reciprocation. I shrink from company and I have found refuge.


As i witness the decadence under the surface, I find that I have nothing to say. Wordless, my contempt takes flight towards the sky. A writer often has two minds and two worlds, one in his work and the other that he lives and breathes. I have neither. My work is inspired by the living and breathing Ativ Schuberg.


There are no commands issued anymore, and there aren’t any commandments either. I have no rules and no guidelines. The only compass that I have is defected. It refuses to point in any direction. I have reached the destination that I sought, but I am yet to find an end to this journey. Paradise is what I see in the night-time, when all our sins are embraced by the sky. I sit up all night, relishing the silence, the stillness, and I like to imagine streams of light rise to the sky. I like to imagine that I can see the dreams of the people who repose now. I imagine their dreams moving up in straight lines of vivid colour towards the dark sky, towards nothing in particular.


No matter how many of them I type, there will always be a regret that I haven’t done any justice to what I see. I feel the abyss of blank indifference that hinders my sense of justice in a shade of meditative bliss. Perhaps we shouldn’t cheapen some emotions with words. Perhaps we take away the dignity of emotion when we try to describe it too much.


The night is welcoming. My bed is soft and warm. My thoughts swirl around the image of Vivienne. I can see her in my mind’s eye. I see something in her that words want to describe but I can’t. I can’t place what I feel, what I think and what I see, but I want the fluency of language to fail me just this once. I want the wordless beauty of Vivienne captured timelessly like a silent flight of birds.


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