Lost children of slow time

Often when I have tired myself from the easy distractions of the cyberspace I ask myself- what now? The distraction has somewhere entered not from the desire to know all that is happening around but somewhere from a deep unease within. Somewhere the narrative out there is quite familiar but still a desire lingers in the corners of the mind that something is happening where I am missing out, some information is trickling in which I should know, that I belong to a time where I should not be, and I need to fill in the gaps of understanding from the ever trickling news, be it in the cyber space or in the lives of the people. There is always a desire to escape the ennui and the repetition of life. But often when I wonder is there at all a repetition? and what is it a repetition of? Perhaps it is easy to escape from the room and walk around aimlessly, looking at the setting sun, the round surface of the moon, listening to the birds and the craziness of the traffic, there is the profound unease still to gape at your cell phone, to catch the on-going world in the contours of the black screen, somewhere out there something is which is the source of unease, but the fulfillment itself brings further questions: where to next? Reflection reminds us day after day that we will not be surprised when we enter into the realm of this real, that the news, and the happenings that we trail are somewhere what we expected, often it does not alter our perceptions, sometimes just makes us immune to them, sometimes in the garb of sitting deep within it just riles us from what indeed demands our attention, we miss those pauses, those silent edges of happening, those lying at the margin, those that have only sufficient space to be relegated to the invisible.

For long today I had walked trying to read and decipher the words that had been long gone, somewhere in the certainty that I had found for myself. Somewhere in the surrounding that I had created for myself, between news, cricket, talking to friends, going on walks, occasional exercises, somewhere it was all an attempt to crave and gain that certainty which makes work possible, where we know that nothing unusual will happen because we have debarred it, we need it in moments of stress, and suffering, that something that gives meaning. But around those very same meanings a lot is getting lost which we often get numbed to, where we fail to pause and reflect on the blackhole that we are entering silently and that keeps consuming us, leaving no time at perusal, for we are lost child of the slow time.