An Ode to Ennui

What makes me sleep at nights now a days is the vorfreude triggered by the very thought about the odds against my waking up to see the next sunrise. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. No, I’m not an insomniac. It would be a rather exaggerated and poetic way to put it if I say I am. Every night is just a leading note towards another dreary day.  Yes, it is. People take this misery, of my likes, for sheer prodigality. It is not, indeed. Living with this feels like trying to cling on desperately to the harsh surface of a concrete wall with all your fingernails while gravity and friction make them shriek. It's no privilege. It's hell.

Yes, we do have our hands, legs, eyes and ears intact and yes, we've got food to eat, water to drink and shelter to dwell. They say that's all. But, are you sure? I doubt it. I too have been around here. I too have seen things, though may be not as much as you. Have you ever found yourself wanting to do something and nothing at the same time so intensely that you cease to live the moment and exist like a vinyl record of an already mundane song broken at it's bleakest portion? Imagine being languished in such a disconsolate state of tedium for days and weeks. Let alone days and weeks; imagine a few minutes of this sort. Ah, leave it. Despite my efforts to convince you of this desolation, some of you still tend to look down on the likes of me. How dismal!