The more you are into the past- the more you are into the future

' Why is the past always glorious?' I probably have asked myself a gazillion times . Not that I do not know the answer but I comfortably forget it. The past is glorious because I have the traits of a narcissist though I am not completely narcissistic. I am reminded of that person I was- who would adroitly sometimes awkwardly, evade all conversations, the unsolicited advice that she should be more communicative to succeed; who would lose her dad in a crowd because he attracted attention and thereby she did too; who wanted to be acknowledged but not clamorously. You can possible define her in a word - 'Shy', but there was more to her than shyness. If my communicative skills that I painstakingly learned did anything to me, it has made me more shallow. I have also come to occupy this enclosure of niceness which renders further analysis of conflicts inconceivable, because my niceness evokes no conflicts. If it were the recluse I used to be- I would ensure that my disagreement over something was well dissected and duly conveyed in words or deeds. I am crying over spilt milk which I don't regret as long as it is productive. So what do I do, shuttle back and forth between socialization and seclusion? At the moment I don't find anything except seclusion sensible.

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I used to return from erode everyday in the bus, from the ophthalmology classes. It took almost half an hour. The 'to' journey used to be good. I had two invaluable books to delve in. Parson and Kanski. The adoration mounted every minute as every tiny mechanism unfolded in dimensions I would have never expected it to. I literally loved the 'eye' and regretted how poor mine was. This was three years ago. This remains inscribed in my memory because this happened for a little over a month. That's about the 'to' erode journey. The classes were unremarkable in that they resembled the usual classes.
I read 'beyond good and evil' on my way back. I don't think I understood much when I read it for the first time then. I got frequently deviated. The 'nothingness' haunted me. I had to fight anhedonia, anhedonia on principle. Every mechanism that I enjoyed reading in the 'to' journey was eventually meaningless. I had to ask myself

What do I do reading all this? Treat people? And then what? They go ahead with their lives. I earn. And what then? I have a tiny chance of bringing some change in people's lives. And again! why does it matter? bringing a change? We are born to live, procreate and die. Nothing else lends greater meaning to life howsoever I may try. I am miserable. Death shall end all this misery of mine. But brings misery to few people who count me into their world

I finally decided to wait until death came and to be happy until then. But things changed since then. Things became almost normal and I lived up to my ambition of being happy.
These questions torment me again. People who called themselves nihilists did nothing but live their lives and jot down whatever they had analysed. But where did all this start? In the search for meaning of life? If that is so, isn't this the universal end-point, nihilism and its accompanying misery? If that is so how many would be alive today? How many of us want to live today? If not many want to live why work for the advancement and research in medicine that costs hundreds of billions in any currency? Why am I even alive? And there is this dreadful question I answered a hundred times that intrudes again. 'What is the meaning of life?' Spare me. I don't want to think. Can you put me in a coma? That's nothingness too-but without these questions.

Hush! Don't tell 'it', Don't kill 'it'

You hide it- it is sustained
You suppress it- it is nurtured
You evade it- it is unhinged
You discredit it - it is adored
You detest it- it is robust
You invalidate it - it resurfaces
You reason it- it parodies you

Do anything , doesn't matter

You spell 'it' aloud once - it's its death sentence.
This "it" is what people call 'love'

Brief report

Hearing your ring-tone but your phone seeming like its dead - A moment of pseudo-dissociation. Didn't strike me that somebody could have the same ring-tone as mine. Not that my mind is shrewd enough to identify all these trivialities. But the impact it had was quite disproportionate. The fear came back. The fear of insanity. Felt alienated for a while. Alienation is a familiar feeling, but insanity authorises and establishes it. For all the bragging about my independence, I am no island.

hokummmm...

The hope that a remote memory can manufacture is nonplussing! I don't know when I watched it. I doubt if I've ever watched it. I remember the theme song of some soap on the national channel. 'Vishalam neeye vizhithezhuluvai, visithiramai un sarithiramae..' The simple tune, the unclouded voice. It gave an impression of change. Immense and intense change!. Change is alluring, the anticipation of change is comforting and the memory of anticipation is enthralling. Change awaits me, the change of future into the past. Nevertheless, it's a change..

CHANGE! possess me, consume me

The Crowded Void

I go to sleep everyday hoping it'd refresh my brain
I expect 'sleep' to be sort of some eraser that conveniently erases everything that I subconsciously don't want to bear and to fulfill all fantasies that never can be fulfilled. Mr. Sleep is my best boyfriend(hardly thought of, but exploited thoroughly)

I don't know what stages I sleep through,
A lot of it is REM and sadly, though supposed to be rejuvenating, it becomes an imposition because REM events can be recalled


Initially nothing
more nothing
hyponatremia
septic shock
leukopenia
unresponsiveness
bleeding
desaturation
Intractable pain
......
and what not!


There are new additions to the menu everyday, but there is persistent hyponatremia. I gasp when I feel can do nothing about it. I give up! I accept my helplessness. I admit to myself that I am not a fighter and burrow my head between the mattress and the pillow desperate for a few hours of non-REM peaceful sleep.That doesn't happen!!!
Despite all these lamentations that can tire anybody, there is a clandestine joy of belonging to the happenings around me when the whole world sleeps, which can be likened to the possession of ESP or some unexplained, uncategorised super power( good as long as it is unexplained). Life's good!

Letters to FMD(Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoyevsky):1

Dear Sir,
I have hardly noticed you hanging in the wall opposite the place I sit. Sometimes I read you, sometimes my text books (which although not as good as yours, are believed to fetch me my bread), sometimes surfing the net (happy for you that you didn't have these not so productive luxuries in your time.The internet should have definitely affected your life, gambler as you were), sometimes writing whatever crosses my mind (always reminded of the honesty and reason in your words, actually the translation of your words), sometimes braying.. I was initially apprehensive if hanging your portrait opposite me would tire me of looking at you. But that never happened. I still wait for it to, cause familiarity breeds contempt, irrespective of the object/person inducing 'familiarity'. Talking about me can tire you.
I've seen you analysing things by talking about yourself. I've never been able to differentiate you and your characters. Let us say that it's so with many other authors, but it's especially so with you. I keep wondering why the then psychiatrists or people soothers didn't consult you. I don't know how renowned you were and I don't wish to know. I know you were an epileptic, had more than one wife, that you took to gambling... Whatever. The misery you went through makes me shudder. I don't know what part of the misery was earned by yourself. But by what you write I believe you blame yourself for whatever you went through(which maybe right). There is this sentence that describes you 'he wrote at heart wrecking speed' and I admire the statement for its veracity. It wrecks my heart, the pace of the words and analyses.
You had to write to earn your bread sir??!!! I wish I were in such a situation, to do something to earn my livelihood. I hate the luxuries I enjoy and the fact that I take my abilities for granted . I wonder how an analytical and a guileless person like you managed to live one and a half centuries ago. Your thoughts and their distinction should have made an outcast out of you. I've seen a similar strain of thought in your contemporaries but those weren't well established or backed up as your thoughts. Though I wish I lived in the same period as yours ( I would have anticipated every book and every word of yours and the fervor would have driven me crazy), I am partly happy that I was born much later, because there is a good chance that I would have died before people talked about you and all your books reached me. And there is not a chance that I could have gotten a portrait of yours, had I lived during your lifetime. There are tonnes to write sir and they shall follow.

Yours
Dissociated

Nihility

The need to connect to the world!! Is that a real need?? Can it be differentiated from the need of letting the world know what you are(i.e letting the world perceive you the way you want to be perceived)?? For example, all these social networks, do you really think they exist to keep you in touch with your friends??? Let's not explore the basic intention of the creation of the same. But indomitable is the fact that these networks advantage of the pomp, flamboyance and pretense that is displayed in from of pictures, thoughts and what not. That makes me a hypocrite, being a part of one such network? La! Very much! But man! It's nothing compared to the hypocrisy I encounter at work everyday. That doesn't make me a lesser hypocrite. I can handle my hypocrisy. I look forward to the day my hypocrisy shall duly be quashed. Today isn't the day?? Nope. Because I want to end this abruptly and get miserable handling hypocrisy.

Q and A: 2

Read this in one of the least known books. 'We, as humans, are always seeking connections. Physically we seek health and affection. Emotionally we yearn for a sense of belonging, intimacy and love. Intellectually, we look for patterns and relationships and spiritually, we pray for oneness with the divine' The book can be labelled decent but this one sentence was edifying ' Intellectually, we look for patterns and relationships'. I always thought patterns and relationships had something to do with emotions. I wouldn't have placed it under intellectual needs. I am wrong. This sentence makes sense!!

Lunaria annua

I had this impulse to write whatever comes to my mind. I could very well have written it on a piece of paper, where it would have been more honest and less dramatic. Even as I try to be less dramatic, my thoughts somehow do get adapted to the fact that I am not after all writing this on a sheet of paper, implying that all these theories on honesty is crap. Nobody in actuality is what she/he to the world. Why opt for the less rational and more animated option of typing it here?. Well, it's nothing sophisticated or commendable. Just plain naked loneliness.For now let's suspend other complicated issues of acknowledgement, appreciation, approval and argument, for which I 'may' write here( 'here' refers to the dubious but actual space that this entity called 'blog' occupies.Dubious because it doesn't exist for most of the world that I know, actual because this blog is among the zillion other apparently unimportant data occupying cyberspace)
Loneliness! It's something that has shaped everybody over her/his developmental years. Almost everything a person is, is the product of her/his loneliness. To mention a few

Experimentation

Introspection

Analysis

Abstraction

Creativity

Dreams

Relationships

This list is incomplete. There are more fanciful 'products' propping up.. But we'll stop here. Out of all the products of loneliness, the unproductive one is .................. Well, I ll let you have your choice. It may very well be out of the incomplete list. And Yet Again(Sigh!), Life's good!

(de?)delineation

I forgot the past with its people to live the present. I live the present hoping that it would soon become the past. My attempts at adaptation to the world ceased when I realized that I was being utopian. Happens! Still, life's good.

The surrender

I opened my eyes and the world seemed a shade darker. I had closed it twenty minutes earlier, the sun had begun to set. It cannot be called meditation, in terms of the people who meditate. But to me this was meditation. I was closing my eyes and listening to this song. Forgive me for my idiocy, everytime I listen to this, I believe it's profoundly mine. It's OM SHIVOGAM from 'Naan kadavul'
I don't understand the lyrics. I can possibly know the meaning of those words but I don't want to. It's the same language I've been relentlessly learning by rote since childhood until a few years ago. Well let's leave the language behind.
It's an intense emotion that I feel when I listen to it. It's been so for over 1 & a 1/2 years, the period over which I've become addicted to it. Never have I tried to categorize the emotion, because 'it felt good' even otherwise. Even now I am afraid if elaborating on the emotion will make it less dear to me.
One of my most rational and honorable teachers said 'the head is born with flexion even in a caesarean section. That implies man has to bow, at least to God and that begins at birth'. I couldn't agree then. I was wondering why someone would want to submit himself to something or somebody.
Never since I became an atheist have I been PARTICULARLY submissive to anything. But everytime I listen to the song I yearn to submit to the 'being' or 'thing' the voice and the music engrave. For once I wished a God that fitted the song existed. But did I say "God"?? The song extols all that is righteous, all that is beautiful, all that is powerful, all that is authentic, all that is rational and all that cannot be controlled by anything except itself. If you call it "God", I may not agree but can empathize.
This submission was overwhelming. I wanted to feel controlled, defined, refined, redefined and composed. I realised I was submitting to myself. Not literally 'myself'. But all the values that made me, that make me and that I make. Life's good yet again.

Not nebulous

I am writing after aeons. Sitting on the terrace, it's supposed to be summer. But never has it seemed like it in weeks now. Well describing weather is something everybody can seem an adept at. Right now there is a huge three dimensional mushroom of a cloud to admire. It coudn't have gotten more beautiful. I am not an ardent nature admirer, but I don't know why admiring it so exhilarating. Is it because I am aware of the ability to admire it, or the fact that I am fortunate to be looking at it?
None of these seem to make sense. Perhaps I assume a bond between myself and these admirable things and as though its broken when I voice the admiration for them. It's just imagination. I imagine that they reciprocate it someway which isn't describable, which of course isn't credible. Credible or not, I shall continue to admire them.The imagination part... lets forget it


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