Vagabond in time

Eons, days, years, and lunations. Humans have shaped their conception of time to best fit their ephemeral existence. Bathing in the environmental clockwork of the surface we are predestined to perceive time as cycles of tangible duration. Shielding our minds from the morbid, infinite linearity in which we as consciousnesses do not belong.
Such comforting cycles tend to fade as we progress deeper and deeper under the surface. Time as I used to know it is but a construct the extent of which ends where chaos begins. To the inhabitants of the abyss, counting time is as foreign as infinity is to us. I have tried to understand to the very best of my intellect the fabric upon which the abyss paints a depiction of the world but I can only approximate it as such in the human word: everything in the world is subject to constant evolution, the universe constantly morphs, yet time is unnecessary in its description for it is a commonality. What matters to the depiction is the nature of the evolution and its causality. I strongly doubt my attempts at explaining such ideas will resonate as anything else than a lunatic’s mumble though I can attest, for all that it’s worth, to the effects the undergrounds have had on my own perception. Indeed an environment both unpredictable and timeless as well as the complete absence of astral cues can very effectively loosen anyone’s grip on the passage of time. So effectively indeed that my prolonged subterranean explorations seem to rip my preconceived time perception out of my mind like a vital contract being torn to shreds in front of my weary eyes. As my ability to think in subjective timescales melts day after day so does my ability to involve myself in the very society that made me. In a stoic lassitude, I see myself becoming a stranger in both worlds. Vagabonding further away from anything I understand.