Existential Crisis.
Once upon a time , a wayfarer went around , looking for some tinctures , some pigments to fill the membranes of his grotesquely monochromatic life.
He searched the emptiness that sat smirking grimly in all the exhibits from van gogh, to Micheal angelo, for some shred ,some fibre to stick to like a scared koala hugs a tree while everything floats past it.
You know what they say about, existentialism? Its multidisciplinary. It is just not about how we perceive ourselves, or how we classify things around us in accordance with our deemed apprehension. Its about how we discover certain indomitable principals , certain truths that are so raw , they even ask for your own desires to be forfeited on the altar of a greater something.
Now coming back to the forlornly travesty of the traveler , who has nothing but a nomad soul and a weary rationale.
From Angelo , to masaccio, to the moguls of art , art that generally looks like orgies and suckling each other’s private parts but somehow manages to be termed as the souvenirs of great fingers and modestly cited as performing art, that carve ribs and guts and sharp , turned up noses , also blood and cells and bare bones and penises and navels and pubic hair clad pelvis, still be counted as art , because of its unfathomable poignancy, and the ability to provoke certain red and blue emotions running wild down your spine.
So , on and on went the nomad , lurking , searching for the missing parts of the jinx in his soul , looking for somekind of ratification , to justify the pit in his stomach that keeps on growing bigger and bigger.
He stops by a tenement , an old weary fellow, with wrinkles now starting to engulf his exoderm, and a murky turban sitting atop his head , reeking of cheap tobacco , steps out and flashes him a toothy grin except half of his teeth were already missing.
He tells our nomad , tales of grief and longing, and how he wished to retrieve the days of his past and relive them once again.
That’s when it hit the lost traveler , that one thing to complete the puzzle of his existence , was momentary presence.
Whatever you do , do it with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul , until your body cells burn out and there’s no more atoms to exhaust.
Live with a purpose. Forsake belabouring, fretting over things that are bygone, by a long time now , for all the bawling won’t buy you more respite or a compensation of any kind.
