Midnight

 Has it ever occurred to you that everything you see in these forever nights, is a dream or a memory of a broken man, searching for something lost or something that never ever existed outside of illusion? The thing called life becomes less than existence, an obscure love affair with breathing, a dark winter festivity without people, and among these billions of thoughts of unknown emergencies of silly kinds, has it never occurred to you that the reasons simply do not exist? That there was nothing to look for tomorrow as everything, including people, popped up into existence for eternity, that everything we all ever did was to foolishly look away, was to settle for the will to live based on a basic animal instinct rather than reason, yet we prided ourselves with possessing rational minds? That we continued throughout history, and made history a flowing object through time, and shaped human perception over time, only not to die in this present moment? 

Sometimes wisdom or the illusion of it, or just being born conscious, is a disease you never recover from, and on nights like these, when you writhe within yourself under the immense pressure of solitude, when the world sleeps apart from the lizards in your dark room, when you count every drop of water dripping from the tap accross the hall on the empty bucket and you synchronise your breath with it, 886, 887, 888... just like that, you take out the Bhagvad Gita and find your ego shining ever too brightly, when you stopped caring yet get punished by the silent colour of the room, you hope against hope to end it all soon but you have become accustomed to pain, so it doesn't hurt maybe like the way it did on earlier nights - on nights like these, you usually survive because these are the only kind of nights left.