Tilting at windmills
At times there are instances where I fail to do anything but surmise that I would rather see myself at the mercy of uncertainty than relinquishing all that I have to prove others predictions about a certain future. This bravado of self-sustenance is nothing but a veil of siren that is shrouded by its own ignorance and slowly turning into a sob captivated in the grooves of mortality. Strange yet sermonically manifested realism that is clad in my alter ego has never looked any bitter than this despite my efforts to put a lid of transcendental fantasy to muff it down. This perpetual conundrum that is gradually giving way to a poisonous skepticism which is treading a path straddling across the domains of faith and insanity, is far from the reach of my ken, but interestingly enough i see myself change colors with nuances of this monumental perplexity. The evolution of my faith and denigration of mundane appendages looks similar to the parables, which I used to listen to in my hay-days with a tinge of disbelief. Paradoxically this stifling sense of liberation suggests in a rather skewed way that the endeavors to levitate this mortal existence of mine prove nothing without the descending aura of that oneness which is known to be turning never-contending melancholy into everlasting pleasure ever since the dawn of human history. Underneath the auburn shades of elms embraced in the locks of glittering twilight, there are velvety petals of rose scattered along the meandering path, which is kindled by the grace of his countenance. Even if our minds are falling prey to the towering darkness, it is the shining of this eternal flame, which is making all the sorrow and pain ebb even in the face of the most tumultuous atrocity human kind has ever seen. Have a nice life...