The Mundane

The Mundane. It is no longer a mystery to me how people can sink quietly into the trivialities of the mundane. I write as confession. It only took me six months and already I stand aloof and unmoved by the depth of dark clouds over a frosted mountain summit. I do not feel much. I have known two great joys in my life, one was that of youth, driven by a greatness of future and a passion for change and reward. The other was that of intellectual discovery, steeping myself in the thoughts and ideas of others who mirrored the hopes of a life in contradiction to the superfluity and monotony of the status quo. These great joys have passed me on, now I find myself unable to keep my dreams and ideals intact while faced with the demands of life on the ground. I have become the life I despise. I pass hours, weeks, with little stimulus, I have not gained, conquered, opened, any doors into new lands. I stare at the sky unmoved and uninspired. I want so badly to feel the passion and the pain of searching, once again. My search, which was of such great desperation and sorrow to me, has finally come to a close, but the ending is no destination at all. I feel as though the dark tunnel has not produced a light but a dire land with a foreclosure sign on its front door. The god of ambiguity and unknown depths has transformed to a tired hand, unable to stir the supernatural, unable to break through the grey smog which chokes our hemisphere.