flame in a blur

Its one of those nights again, I sit on my table, with nothing to do, too much in my head. I dig my hands deeper in the pockets, its cold. The unfinished painting stares at me, scowling at my laziness, unmotivated fingers, but they sink even deeper in the pockets.

Its one of those night again, I can't sleep, I can't think because it is all too much. I think too much about the emptiness, and then shrug it away. Sometimes I feel my thoughts are like sand grains, I hold on to them too tight, and then let them slip away, with that sense of nothingness. Is it the too much much attachment that leads to detachment, or is it that I am plain bored.

This place is getting boring, I am getting restless, I need to move, go somewhere else, maybe another country. Live another life, start afresh. Why do I always have this feeling to start fresh, why do things get stale after a while, almost like the room that hasn't been ventilated, its cozy and warm, but at the same time has this stale thick air to it, something that suffocates me. Or maybe I always try to erase one picture and make another- I rush through my painting, never allow the paint to dry and then end up smudging the colours and then have to start on a new canvass. Maybe I should slow down, yes, but then how do I kill my time, my boredom? People can't do that, nothing does it, not even me.

It has been a long time since I have felt very deeply for something: everything feels so much on the surface these days, so shallow, so fickle. There is a almost a perverse feeling in stability, as though something is intrinsically wrong in it. The craziness, the excitement and the trembling before God is gone, there is no trembling, no excitement, not even wisdom. Buddha would be so disappointed at me, or would he really? The human is lost somehow, no what? what next? I am addicted to knowledge, as though not-knowing is the opposite of knowledge; or is not?

The flame is blurring, or is it vanishing, what happened? no more fuel?