Of a presence

How long has it been since the last time I saw sunshine? How long have I been sitting still here?

That question no longer bothers me. There was a time when the the sun brought joy while the absence of it brought fear. But this reality of darkness has transformed into an enveloping calm and a peaceful balm that light has become an abstraction so far away that neither seduces nor promises. 

It does not matter now. Whether a day or a century, it is  irrelevant now. There was a time, long time ago, when I would frantically keep notes of the notable incidents, passing affairs, and grand adventures. It was the time when I  believed that the time could be the best of friend and the worst enemy. Now, I understand that it is always the impartial observer and a detached presence, but never a foe.

Now, I neither hope nor despair. I just be, neither grand nor important, and that is enough.

Such is the fate of me, the pen under the bed.

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