Dreams

How often is that one gets to realise his dreams? I have always realised mine.It could be so that my dreams are very tangible that I realised them until now. I am gifted with the unique ability of not being able to tell my dreams from reality. I live my reality in dreams and the dreams in reality. Not that my present dreams are farfetched. But, for the first time I am facing a situation where my dreams are sneaking out. I am not able to put into words what has blown up in my face. My face is pretty contorted, so is my mind. More to come, needless to say.

Recovery from delirium

I am glad I did make an account of the ruckus the other day. The uncertainties unnerved me. I did look for the roots of the same, rather tardily. And surprisingly found them. Yes, I am growing old. But I have learned to live with uncertainties and to resolve them gently without drama. I am growing old and I am still learning.

Life's good? Very much folks!

Delirium

I was set to think after a really long time which isn't surprising because it's a rarity to have a mind of my own these days. Whose mind I dwell on otherwise, I do not know.
That's been something I keep repeating often lately 'I don't know'. It's probably because I am too lazy to think or I don't care to to think about anything vague. But sanely, vaguer ideas are just those which need to be worked on. Which brings us to the conclusion that I wasn't sane
I am thinking and I am delirious. When did so many uncertainties intrude on my mind? Well, uncertainties are supposed to intrude on everybody. But why and how have I learned to be so comfortable with them? They should have unsettled me long ago but they failed to and still haven't. I may be delirious but I am still in complete and remorseless possession of these uncertainties.
Does this disquieting comfort accompany the phenomenon growing old or does it stem from tolerance to uncertainties and manifold itself? I am agitated indeed, but I am doubtful if this sequestered tumult is enough to dispense with this comfort. I fervently hope to answer all the questions that I have come up with. And again, it's uncertain.

Life's good?? I don't know.

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.