We
never tire of wanting. It’s attributed to nature—this churning affair. We never
tire of our ruses, as often see-through, where anger appears. There’s
irritation, this irksome nature, needling and nicking and pricking and probing
our souls. It’s found in genetics, even academia, this feeling of discomfort,
where doubt becomes systematic, while faith ruptures designs. We can’t ignore
it, this inner mirror, where life appears to itself. It evolves through
vision—as never to tire of seeing. It morphs through hearing—as never to tire
of hearing. We feel its motion, this irritation for others, especially, where
things appear too simple: this outward classification.
I
couldn’t find her, as one yearning for depth, where simplicity ruled at large.
I couldn’t see her, as if the canvas was blank, as if something were hiding.
This becomes life—where depth is shunned, as one claiming for depth; but I,
too, suffer from a dearth—founded in universal knowledge; where youth consumed
its soul, occupied with disease, addiction, and even abuses. Depth was
assertion. Love was sketchy—for training was scarce. We imagine things when
confronted by something unusual. For instance, if our neighbors are
flourishing, at least in appearance, while we are suffering spiritual, mental,
and physical poverty, we make comparisons, thereby, determining that something
is deeply wrong. This sets aflame critical thoughts—where this inner tension
emerges.
We
tire of tiring—this whirlwind of angst, grounded in anxieties—as feeling
discomfort, as shaded by elements, rooted in intelligence. The deeper the soul,
the deeper the stress! We feel shadowed. It awakens with us. It sips coffee,
admires life, as reminding us of time. It’s a pendulum of tensions, evolving
with minutes, this thing we fight to hamper.
