Only at times, and very rarely more, do I not repent. In the midst of a life situation (but there really is nothing called a non life situation), when rest homo sapiens of even meagre aptitude would arrive at efficient conjectures, my thinking would ram against me, and dismiss its own potential.
I understand the way out and from seemingly more in synch with life peers is to work purely on 'instincts.' It sounds meaty and sexy but how worthwhile can that be? There’s no reasoning put to use until then. Its only an uncooked piece of a stray thought lying pell mell in some weird alleys of unexploited neurons. Well, in all honesty, I still certainly would cling to 'instincts', but then my brain forgets that it must function but by those suggestions of the mind prompting at first instance. The grey organ then slips, hovers, also craves but never does it yield. And see now when the bastard does, it yields only on paper, on this some form of wood pulp. It is of miniscule utility. It did not when it could. What am I supposed to do from my own ramblings? I am clobbered by my own mesh of wishful thinking which metamorphosises into concentrated repentance so rapidly that it almost feels brilliant, in the event one can gauge this switch of emotions.
I perceive death must relieve me of this cacophony. Much because people who are dead are not seen around, and are ideally expected not to be, but I guess its still only a lame assumption. Who knows if this extends beyond my existence. For these feelings seem too homely to betray me. I use affectionate vocabulary because it is this conflict of sentiments, that urges me to jot, although tremblingly and with quarter confidence; so that I can make my roused negativity conducive to some degree. (The way people belonging to my caste would like to think. Benefit of any nature from any venture would give them solace.)
This world and I have a strange chemistry. It seems to confirm my body, but not my mannerisms! It takes me in, and yet leaves me stranded in bullying life frames, where seeking words from friends would imply diluted masculinity. Its startling how much of a slave is literature of harsh and sour feelings and green eyed jealousy, of bitterness and crudeness, of burnt and exhausted endeavours; of relishing but more of repenting, of memory and gross moments. Soothing literature sometimes also arises out of gross looking cunts, and God’s humour then I must confide, is not at least slapstick.
Enough of bleeding on paper, I shall clot. And then I must also do the regular things in life like sitting in the library and pretending to read.
More from the stinking wound. Later.
3 comments:
Oscar Wilder said once- Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.
Much authoritative thinker/ philosopher Satre said, "Hell is other people."
Being self aware of is the most important to oneself. You seem to closer to that; I am still struggling to find myself in the context of this world. Here I am, quoting 'other' people to make you understand the importance of oneself. Ironical isn't?
There can't be a scale to measure oneself. What you need is to realise yourself and nurture it so that you have a place in this universe for yourself, rather than staying in someone else's room.
Well, this pretty much is my own room. Isnt it my webspace.
And its true that most people are other people. In fact all of them are like each other.
Post a Comment