Swimming through a Slough of Despond

Dear,

I haven’t written you for a while. It’s just that I’ve been suffering from some kind of sickness which deterred me from indulging in such exercise like this. You know, the past few months had been long and dragging for me. I know you could have well asked if I am okay if you’re here with me now. For some certain reasons, the answer would come necessarily in an instant. I would necessarily say that I am not and I am on the verge of hitting the lowest point that borders on extreme depression. But, here I am anyway; confiding to you the things I could only convey to the blank wall or by way of deleterious stare to nothingness.

If Kundera’s way of speaking such phrase as the condition of the unbearable lightness of being begins to be repugnant and annoying to the senses, it’s like abhorring and rebuking "Einmal ist keinmal" (once is nonce); however true, we have only one life to live and one being to bear that would continuously disrupt the levitative aspect that underlies the premise.

I’ve been bombarded with dissociative experiences lately and one couldn’t just imagine how I live each day with so much desperation. Pictures of myself vividly tell how I grapple with so much burden. . .so much pain. There I am almost losing balance while sitting on a stolid chair as I lie extendedly on the rest as if it was the old rattan which lulled me mostly during siesta there at the province. It happened there at the library. Everybody looked and I was embarrassed. There I am loitering along empty streets few hours before sunrise. I felt sadness at the sudden nocturnal life. I felt I had enough of this world when the radio stations sign off in the middle of the night leaving me with words of prayer: let us have our day’s rest it says. . .so what now? I ask myself. I have yet to finish these deadlines. There I am throwing these bad jokes about considering the mode of ending a perturbed journey: wires? Ropes? Wrist? Woolf’s way. . .which prompted me to tell someone that the reason behind writing about the sea is that I opt to follow Woolf’s path on deciding eternity.

There I am flunking an exam after an exam. I’ve not been performing and sometimes I tell myself that it’s high time to assess although it’s too late. Still, something inside me mysteriously drives my way pass these conundrums. It’s like an antibody. Is this some kind of an epic then? a personal legend, dear guru? Is this leading somewhere to nirvana?

The accountant has a nibble of wisdom to share. While cursing on his worksheets almost tearing them to pieces just because of that 40 centavos he can’t balance, he shrieked. Maybe, like numbers appearing on two opposite sides of the chart, my life also needs to be. . er. . balanced?

I have so much to share. . .This is the end for now.