I got lost in the recession of the waters, hypnotically converging away and towards the ill-defined, Its tantalizing approach, only a taunting suggestion to torment hope.
What made it particularly captivating, was the gradient of filth to purity that defined the distance between me and the horizon. I felt silly with the notion of allowing myself further introspection. It might have been because of my recent resolution to condition and control my introspection since my last meltdown, Or it might be because of my father, who ensured that every one of my ventures beyond the norm of thought was rewarded with displeasure and pain.
But this one time. For various reasons I'd tire to explain, these conditions escaped me and I was caught.
The gradient. It was obvious. But somehow my romantic tendencies tilted my thought towards idealism. And I was left pondering on the perspective of an individual and its displacement from truth.
I knew, why the filth assembled around our presence and seemingly diffused along with it. But I chose to see it as novel. I chose.
To feel a truth.
I saw the rhythmic ebb and flow that drew the filth from the banks and into the body but I also noticed the inevitable accumulation contrary to the pattern.
It was, I was sure, the inevitable increment of filth that represented the inadequacies of our environment to serve our person. The leftover, the scraps or the overdone scrapings of the burnt toast, the floated back towards the human vessel, goading us to act. Informing us of our failures.
Man do I hate chemical biases disturbing my thought. The irony, that a rush of substance in its momentary disillusion, the ancient instants of nasha, can be more rewarding than most of our sober consciousness proliferation. . . . ..