If life were perfect, I’d be dead by now. For in a perfect life, there would be no room for an idol-smasher like me. In a perfect life, illusions rule supreme. Oh, thank heavens we live in an imperfect world. If these sentiments should sound strange at first, coming from someone like me, one should bear in mind that my ir-religiosity, my atheism, has always been more anti-idol than anti-God. For I can only reject the evil I see, I cannot reject the unknown.

Only Time will tell what remembrances really mean – whether they are simply nostalgic fragments of the Self crying for fusion, or shattered moments of an all too fragile time seeking to be whole again. Or could it possibly be that I am Time and Time is me? That our co-terminality is the source of all confusion, because it needs to be continuously discovered?

Life seems increasingly unfathomable to me of late, increasingly tumultuous. You cannot make sense of anything in the absence of silence. Yet, silence seems more and more like the luxury I can never afford again. My grip on reality is bound to become increasingly uncertain, I know. But then, has it ever been anything but uncertain? Through silence and tumult, it seems, in time, life is simply bound to lose all meaning, all significance. That is why I will be able to let go of it, one day. Will it be near?

In the back of my mind (or is it my consciousness?), there lingers a burning certainty instructing me that everything I am doing today, that everything I have ever done all through my life, is nothing more than a continuing loss of myself to the world. The world is a cannibal and I its willing prey. How can I fight against something that comes from within and without and from yesterday and the morrow, and is present in every tremor and every minute of my night and day?