Something I am working on, still Incomplete

He…
He who set about to write a treatise on sadness, slowly and unseeingly has lurked beneath the darkness of his incapacity to come up with a perfect word for his inability to be sad.
The repertoire of limitlessness gives birth to a classless distaste, a sheer ennui for all minutiae of reality and a million reflections of it. One or any piece of such rotten existence sums up thoughtless vagaries of arrogance, and vanity fears, and succumbs to meaninglessness of faith or the absence of it.

Follow we must because the flowing paths of pilgrims make an eternal outcast of me, an upstream escape be cut short by the ensuing stampede that crushes all outcasts and pilgrims alike and I have yet only lived voices. I am yet described by paradoxes and questions: I am not yet my description.

A curious innocent child with shining eyes, who used to sit in the deep spatial blankness in moonlit verandahs at night, to wonder, to explicate the infinite patterns in stars has long been disfigured by images blight.
On the unsure face of his simulacrum lies resting a bestiality and ravenous desire to scavenge on dolor, to understand for once what it would mean to be truly sad.

Away! Orphan child o mine! Away! I stultify with numbness, you.

Ah! The visions of paradise and fear of hell!

We thought then, thence and thereafter, Satan shall lead us not astral through greed and desire. I know puritans would scoff at me, for losing the sense of time, of eternity of heaven and hell. They would laugh, a convulsion their laughter is, the laughter of theists, which sends me shivers down me spine. But I keep losing it. It is barely important. When we move in a circle with the speed of the sense of history, we see how imaginative and charming but deceptive and elusive idea eternity is. But Oh! These are regrets speaking. Regrets, these are beautiful egrets that fly w towards the bland translucent moon instead of the splash dash of sunset at sunset. Always felt there was something about our voices, whispers that is independent of us: but then again, what inverted times these are. Seems I’ve been going in circles.