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