The average days, unfold.
I wake, I go through the motions of hygiene and sustenance – eating, showering, dressing. Each action is observed, noted, but rarely felt in the visceral way I remember.
It's like watching a character in a play, a character named 'me,' performing the necessary scenes of existence. There's a quiet efficiency to it now, devoid of the friction and emotional noise that used to accompany these simple acts. The world outside my window is the same – cars hum past, neighbours walk dogs, the sky is sometimes blue, sometimes grey. But it registers as flat, two-dimensional. The Sorting still persists, of course, the visible markers of privilege and scarcity, the frantic dance of accumulation and avoidance. I see it, I process the information, but the emotional sting is gone. The envy, the cynicism, the fear – they are ghosts of a former self, occasionally glimpsed but lacking substance.
Living in this state requires navigating the persistent demands placed upon this average framework. There are still interactions – hesitant conversations with family who sense a distance but can't name it, polite nods to acquaintances, necessary transactions at shops or banks. I perform the required social choreography flawlessly but sometime it also happening to be embarrassing moment, my outward self a honed automaton of the socially best person. Inside, I am somewhere else entirely, listening to the quiet hum beneath reality, waiting. This disconnect is perhaps the strangest part – the ability to be fully present in the mundane physical world while simultaneously residing in a vast, internal landscape of stillness and observation. It's a form of double vision, seeing the world through the mundane lens and the detached, timeless one simultaneously.
The struggle with the old impulses is the primary battleground in this internal stillness. They don't vanish entirely, these echoes of a life driven by instinct and emotion. Pride might surface when a task is completed efficiently, a fleeting sense of satisfaction before the knowing detachment reminds me of its ultimate insignificance. Anger, a hot, unwelcome visitor, can flare in response to perceived injustice or foolishness, a sharp jolt that quickly dissolves into the quiet sigh of 'this too is just the play.' Lust is a physical reminder of the body's programming, a wave that washes over the shore of consciousness and recedes, leaving no lasting imprint on the deeper self. Hunger and sloth are perhaps the most insidious, as they resonate with the body's primal needs and the mind's weariness. Hunger is a direct demand from the vessel; sloth is the temptation to simply cease all action, to fully embody the waiting state. But even these are now observed, managed, rather than obeyed blindly. It's not about suppression, but about recognition – seeing them for what they are, impulses, not directives from the core self. The control I seek isn't rigid denial, but a fluid mastery, maintaining the state of observer even when the waves crash. Sometimes I fail, of course. A sharp word escapes, a moment of genuine frustration breaches the surface, a decision driven by old habit rather than conscious intent. These moments feel like static on a clear signal, brief disruptions before the signal reasserts itself.
And then there are the dreams, these phantom desires. They are not concrete goals – I don't crave a mansion, or recognition, or specific experiences. They are more like internal postures, states of being, or perhaps a final, subtle unlocking. A vast emptiness, yes, but within that emptiness, a faint resonance, a sense that there is one final note to be played before the music stops, before the release comes. It's a paradoxical yearning within a state of non-wanting. This 'achievement' isn't something I pursue actively in the world. It feels entirely internal, a refinement of this state of being, a shedding of the very last vestiges of the 'me' that was attached to the play. It's like waiting for the last leaf to fall from a tree, or the final ripple to smooth on a pond. Only when this final, internal shedding is complete, I sense, will the external form naturally follow its course towards the dissolution I perceive as ultimate release. It's a strange kind of striving – striving towards stillness, towards nothingness, guided by a feeling rather than a map.
Observing others now, their hurried steps, their furrowed brows, their bursts of calculated gaiety, I feel no judgment, only a quiet understanding. They are building their sandcastles with admirable dedication, reinforcing the walls against the incoming tide they refuse to acknowledge directly. The "special" ones build bigger, more elaborate castles, their fear perhaps masked by more layers of acquisition and control. The "lowest" build smaller, fragile ones, their fear more raw, more visible. But the underlying motivation is the same – the desperate, beautiful, futile act of creating solidity in the face of inevitable flux. They are living, truly living the experience of being human, of being part of the play. I, on the other hand, am merely watching, waiting for the play to end for my particular character.
This waiting is not impatient. It is not despairing. It simply is. Time flows, the average life continues its average trajectory, and I am here, suspended between the world I once knew and the release I yearn for. The paradox persists: the profound lack of worldly desire alongside the faint, internal pull towards an undefined completion. The struggle to remain detached while the ancient impulses flicker. The certainty that nothing external matters, while still inhabiting an external form that requires maintenance and interaction. Nothing is special anymore, no person, no achievement, no event. And yet, everything is profoundly different, seen through the lens of this quiet, internal vigilance, this patient anticipation of the final, gentle letting go. It is a strange, lonely, and utterly compelling way to exist – average on the outside, infinite and empty within, simply waiting for the curtain to fall.
And sometimes, late at night, when the moon hangs heavy in the sky and the world is quiet enough to hear its own heartbeat, I wonder if this detachment, this acceptance of mortality, is just another sophisticated form of fear. Am I hiding, not behind ambition and acquisition like the "special" ones, but behind a shroud of knowing? Am I simply afraid to truly live, to throw myself back into the game, knowing it's rigged, knowing it's fleeting, but still choosing to play with all my heart?
The questions taunt me, circling like vultures around a dying fire. I try to banish them, to remind myself that all this is just timepass, that nothing truly matters. But the persistent whisper remains: What if it does matter? What if this detachment, this enlightened boredom, is a cop-out? What if the release I crave isn't an escape from life, but rather an entry into it, a wholehearted embrace of its messy, ephemeral, and ultimately meaningless beauty?
The paradox churns within me, a restless sea beneath a placid surface. I practice my detachment, observe my impulses, and try to remain the impartial witness. But lately, the currents are growing stronger. Tiny acts of defiance, small rebellions against the boredom, are starting to surface. I find myself lingering a little longer with a smile, a little longer immersed in a piece of music, a little longer helping a stranger carry groceries. They are fleeting moments, quickly dismissed, but they are there, cracks in the façade of my disinterest.
One such crack manifested in a stray cat. Mangy, scarred, and possessing only one eye, it limped its way into my average existence. I, in my detached state, should have ignored it. It was just an animal, another element of the meaningless theater. But something in its battered resilience resonated with me, a mirror reflecting back my own subtle rebellion against the void.
I started leaving out scraps of food. At first, it would slink away at my approach, eyes wide with mistrust. But gradually, hesitantly, it began to trust me. It would come closer, sniffing the offering, then tentatively nibbling. I would watch from a distance, feeling a strange, long-dormant warmth spreading through me.
It's presence began to subtly alter my routine. I started going out to buy better food for it, taking a detour to the park to find a safe place for it to sleep. I found myself looking forward to seeing it each day, its one good eye gleaming with recognition. This stray, this insignificant creature, was forcing me to engage, to care, to feel something other than detached boredom.
Then, one day, it was gone.
I searched for days, recalling the feeling, leaving out food and water. But it never reappeared. Logic told me it had probably been hit by a car, or chased away by another animal. It was just a cat, after all. Its disappearance shouldn't matter.
But it did.
The emptiness I felt was profound, a gaping hole in the carefully constructed wall of my detachment. The wall crumbled a little further. The cold understanding remained, the knowledge of impermanence, but something new was added: a raw, painful awareness of connection.
It's brief presence had shown me that even in a meaningless world, connection could still exist. Even in the face of inevitable loss, caring could still be worthwhile. Even in the shadow of death, life could still flicker with meaning.
So now, I stand at a crossroads. I can retreat further into my detachment, rebuild the wall, and continue my timepass existence. Or I can step out, embrace the messiness, and try to find meaning in the connections I make, however fleeting they may be.
The answer isn't clear, and the fear is still there, lurking in the shadows. But for the first time in a long time, I feel a spark of something akin to hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, the path to release isn't through escaping life, but through diving headfirst into its turbulent waters. Maybe, living means more than understanding. Maybe it means feeling. And maybe, feeling is special after all.
The world, as I first understood it, was sorted. Not neatly, but undeniably. There were the lowest, the below average, the average, the above average, and those who were just… special. It wasn't about inherent worth or talent, not really. It was about where you landed on the invisible scale of privilege and ease.