A mistake

The modern man thinks of himself as unique. He thinks that, amidst the chatter and worries of a million others, he stays true to "himself" and does not steer off his "path".

His ego is adamant against the overwhelming torrent of circumstance; his existence is nothing but continuous. He lives in a momentary eternity, till he eventually, rather gracefully transitions into non-existence.

Isn't it eerie that we freak out about death so intensely yet so rarely, and are mostly truly shook by it when we face the thing itself?

Our composition is, so that we do not truly perceive the oceans of future and past surrounding our island of present. Present is what we truly have, and we don't even have much of that.

The modern man is an amalgamation of what he perceives. He is the rock he doesn't notice on the ground, the concept that he understands, the idea that he disregards, the tv show host that he kind of likes.

Yet he is so incredibly comfortable by the rather patched up thing that he calls himself. In his mind, every spool of existence intertwines at a point, and then untangles into meaningless eternity. For him, the knot exists independent of spools. This is a mistake.

The modern man is a mystery.