Dickens

Once again, the night and weariness have drawn out the words that should never have seen light. The constant barrage on the pyschological turf has taken its toll and I become more weary than ever. Ghosts of the distant past revisit in the way Dickens' story materializes for Scrooge. And ironically, Christmas draws near. The present may reign but there are moments like these when I wonder the 'what is to come', while dwelling on the 'what has been'.

As said, the bones are better left undisturbed. The Quixotic is never meant to be, neither the Gump. What is ever pressing is the adage; 'Live your life every day as though it is your last'. I may be a social construct, but when the destruction of everything is complete, what will be left is my Will alone. I am not of the Faith, nor of Nature. Instead, let my Will guide me in the ways of the unseen, let my cryptic ways form my identity, for I am me. I may be subsumed in the traditions of humanism, of civilization, but beneath it all, I subscribe to nothing, except my free Will, for lo and behold, it is what I have left.

The husk will not last long.