The human end

In some torn hemisphere is lost the key to some token that was to reveal the identity of how I was to become whole again. That identity is there but unattainable now. I must persevere to gain it but I can't be certain of how long I can sustain my stamina. Sometimes I give in early, other times I prolong my inevitable end.
What surrounds me bewilders me, when I touch it I feel goo overcome me. This is what I've known since the day I was born. It feels as though this revelation I am seeking will kill me and in my wake, only I will be reborn again. My old limits will escape me then and I'll be able to pass through without any common or uncommon hesitance.
But for that I will have to maintain my strength. Beyond my windows are only storm clouds and unrelenting rain, what then do I await so eagerly? For what do I make such efforts, albeit carelessly?
In my old home, under the different atmosphere, nonchalance was the prized virtue. Those truly blessed wore it healthily while others found themselves striving for it. There I was known for my variety. It wasn't indecent nor did it wear some rich garb - it was dressed. When I spoke heads didn't turn with extreme wonder nor did they disdainfully shy away from me in some motion of swift. But my voice wasn't meant for any heads, heads don't listen. Heads think. My voice was meant for those instruments which listened and if those instruments subsequently talked to the respective head then that I considered a strictly private affair. Whatever it is that my voice aimed to deliver it never, ever, dared to breach the sanctity of privacy. And that is where the virtue is sufficiently and entirely understood. It isn't in the display of grand self-service that profits it, certainly not for then it is one or the other vices and nothing else. Nor is it just careless abandonment of self, where self like a feather glides from the wind's this tangent to the next one. Nonchalance is a gentleman, the utmost gentleman who is also a man among all men but lacking the insistence of being a man when among other men. Nonchalance is the definition of existence as it reveals itself to the being who is conscious enough to know, but not just one who knows but also one who has questioned. But just a bit less than that. To question isn't necessarily implying a desire to seek answers. To ask a question is an act independent from all other acts that can succeed it, it may not even be dependent on acts preceding it. Asking a question, by itself and without the yearning for resolutions, lies then at the core of Nonchalance. Nonchalance can ask but won't seek answers but it will certainly seek questions from time to time. Just so it will deliver its voice but it will not probe for reactions, it will move on before any such arrive. It isn't self-serving, rather if a nonchalant person indulged in the act it would find itself frustrated beyond any relief; for the answers are missing. For Nonchalance answers are no more important than the questions nor are the questions any more or less important than anything else. For nonchalance there is only one thing that is of any value and that is whatever it decides it to be at whatever instance of time.
It simply stops short of being entirely random before it becomes absolute chaos. Random it is not, it chooses and therefore it has some reason. It assumes reason but reason isn't presented as if it were a trophy. Reason is assumed to be the river and it: driftwood. The flow is calculated but the motions of driftwood appears random, chaotic. Whatever can be said about appearances being severely divorced from reality need be said in an unsaid manner here.