Less Than a Quip

Preserving sanity is toilsome.

We are a fickle specie and our underlying ability to diverge and converge from a single point of existence makes us who we are. Why then, must we abuse this single most advantage? Why do we purposely indulge in industrious thought process that bears no sweet fruit to the current or forthcoming generation?

I have been induced to write about this due to a mental plague that haunts me: I cannot think.

I stopped thinking.

I ceased it some good eight nine months back and I haven’t been able to resuscitate it ever since.

My brain has yielded less today than it did yesterday. The gradual disintegration of my thoughts has resulted in what I would refer to as ineptitude. Everyday inference seems cumbersome where a particular situation requires moral concentration and deduction.  Even writing has become somewhat of a Herculean activity. And after hammering priceless irons into the fire, do I achieve a humble enough word to match the credibility of my writing. Vocabulary building for me is synonymous with dislodging concentration on behalf of the wonders of my subconscious – or whatever goes ‘down’ there.

I have been reduced to a systematic tray of input and output alone. Or perhaps I feel that way.