the lost man chronicles
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the serene harbor of nothingness

It was one of those nights when I could not think straight because my thoughts were scattered and being stretched apart by an assortment of projects, parties to plan and things to do.

In turn, my mind was moosh—a marsh of foggy thoughts, a thick briar of sticky musts and prickly to-dos, as well as a tumultuous sea of salty and swirling ideas that, together, stirred me nauseous and numb and begged for some, if only a little, silence and clarity.

I found solace in simplicity, and vied to minimalize.

First, I stopped trying to read my book, Michel de Montaigne’s tasty and elegant treatise on life, a philosophical meandering that wonders about everything one man could ever muse upon.

Then, I simply sat with my eyes closed and tried not to ponder or wander or pursue anything pensively whatsoever. And for once I didn’t try to be clever or witty or wise; I stopped trying to analyze, contemplate and realize anything anew.

And in an insensate stupor I just sat there—quietly recomposing in the serene harbor of nothingness.

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