I’m an old soul. I live in the moments between the moments, when life is silently transitioning from one event to the next. In the gaps when the air is quite still, there is no meaning and only a stillness which cannot be translated into anything concrete- that amorphous meaninglessness is the real truth and we only see it when the noise dies down for a few moments. Like when the first gust of wind is done blowing golden-brown autumn leaves to the earth and is waiting for the next wave to add to its carefully constructed piles. And when the psychedelic frames of images that burst in a crowded, loud room subside before the next boom begins to rise like a far-off train gaining momentum. Those undefined moments which can have no meaning assigned to them for humankind, betray what seems to me to be the deepest mystery of our existence- that there is nothing to behold ultimately, but that elusive silence we wish to run away from. Ennui can be our only real state of existence.
And when you ask me what I seek, when I’m done trying to fill the hollowness inside me with all sorts of things- music, books, art, thoughts, experiences and love- I’d still be burning with the same ennui that set me off in the first place. That fire will only die when I do.