Midnight Rambler
There is only so much one can talk about the great thinkers and philosophers of the world. There is only so much one can talk about intellectualism and how it diminishes one’s appetite. A day comes, a day like any other, or is it a continuum of such days? I’m not sure which one it is, but I am most certain that it’s one of the two mentioned; Yes, so it arrives, with the peculiar stench of finality that tells you that its over now, and you stand amazed, hesitating to ask something, perhaps more in the line of, “but, what took you so long?”. But then you get hold of your wits, you’ve to maintain your composure, repress those churlish thoughts; you’ve mastered this art over the years, after all. You put forward your most engaging smile.Adolescent intellectualism is very hard to get rid of, I’m not sure if it’s the excitement of reading something ultra-unconventional or experiencing the depths of human existence that allures the sensitive young man towards the big books of wisdom or the pristine pieces of art. It’s a heavy bait, all right. Nothing can substitute experience though, it has to be earned; you can’t borrow it from Sartre.
It’s such a terrible thing to want to work hard and not being able to find the motif. Too much thought clouds the judgment, there is so much happiness in working hard, and I’ve reminded this to myself since long and also the fact that lassitude makes such fine company with the budding intellectuals. I must confess that occasionaly there are moments of madness though when I swear to put everything back on track, determined and energized, but then the old laxity strikes and brings a smile with itself, laughing aloud with the expression that says, “Huh! You never were one of them.” never mind the fact that sometimes I actually want to be one. Long-term plans don’t really excite me, for all I care we all end up dead in the long run, it’s the basic, daily rigour of surviving each day that thrills me the most, everyday I make plans and watch them going down the drain. There is no substitute in the world for the joy that it gives me. By the way, I hate the word ‘masochist’, I think it’s very self-indulgent and I also hate this whole brouhaha over the confessional style of writing. I have never been a great fan of this method of looking inward to search for the answers; depths of human soul repel me, it’s too dark in there. Existentialism is a pile of shit, anyway. I hate megalomaniacs; I am one. It’s pathological, thinking about oneself, this inflated sense of self-importance that makes you believe you can do anything since you’re above anything, literally. Well, it never takes me too long to realize the fallacy of it all, or I may say, I’m not really allowed this privilege to float around, really.
Companionship is overrated, period. More often than not it results in stilted experiences, contrived words and dissembling actions. I have had the most sublime thoughts when I’m alone, in my room doing absolutely nothing at all. My window overlooks a patch of trees that provides the most ideal setting for the transmigration of the life-altering ideas that I get almost every day, without fail. I have drastically cut down on my reading; it’s a waste of time mostly. Words don’t excite me any longer, I remember I read somewhere about the distinction between identity and make believe, like when I write ‘pen’, it’s not actually a ‘pen’ but its representation in the form of premeditated symbols. You get the idea.
I almost loathe the way I write, still I’m not going to delete this; it must act as another reminder of the things I have failed at.
There are too many Is in this post.
posted by thelostcause @ 1:15 AM
Comments: 7
