I am sitting here thinking whether I should write, read or sleep. Insomnia does that to you. Mother was doing her office work 10 minutes back so I sat beside her. She told me something about her work. I nodded as if I understood it. Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn’t. I went to the bathroom then and saw myself in the mirror. “Not really bad looking”, I thought to myself. I could look at myself without feeling disgusted. After today’s turn of events, I thought I wouldn’t be able to but I could and I even found myself oddly good-looking.
When moments of despair hit you, when you realise your mistakes or, to be more specific, actions not approved by a majority of people, you begin to tear up from within the inside sometimes. Not very often, sometimes. That is, if you have surrendered to despair. I think I still have a shred of hope. I think I miss the comfort of highs and lows. No, or is it? Am I doubting my abyss? Perhaps. This phrase continues to play inside my head, “Existence precedes your essence”. Interesting, isn’t it? Two paradoxical thoughts collide and make me mad. Perhaps this madness is why I can’t sleep tonight. I want to break something, I want to burn, I want to fuck. I tried porn. But porn isn’t good enough in times of madness. That is why I am writing. This act of writing… why do I write? Is it the substitute to breaking? To burning? To fucking? I have no idea.
I am starting to question things again, but from a different perspective. I think of breasts when I write sometimes - offers me inspiration. Some men prefer ass. I know a man who has a nice ass. But I like breasts. In fact, I keep on checking whether I am still attracted to women, by imagining breasts. Nice fake breasts. Sometimes, small and firm, sometimes big and soft. My ability to objectify women never ceases to wonder me. Am I feminist still? I asked a woman once, how can she ever love a man? Women are much more interesting. They are like flowers, fragile and yet there is the strength; in addition, there is always a pair of breasts on them. What is wrong with me? I mean every second person has them. Is something wrong with me or am I the only sane one in this world?
No. Perhaps this lunacy arises from books. Thoughts, ideas, and boom! Explosions. Boom! I like the word boom. The sound that is produced by the touch of my lips. I think when I say boom I am sexy. No, how can I be sexy? Sexy are those idiots who work for hours just for a six pack or an eight pack. But then again, I do too sometimes. Does it mean that I am sexy sometimes and not the other times? Anyway, the problem lies that I can masturbate only by dreaming of a sexy woman. But there are moments, often if truth be told, that I dream of a woman making love to me, a woman who actually wants me and loves me. This is an interesting development inside me. Now I understand why I can’t believe in God, even after trying so hard. I am too sinful. There is a quote in the movie “old boy”, a Korean film. It says, “Even though I am a monster, have I no right to live?”. I think I should listen to some Chopin. Musical compositions always calm me down. No, this silence is something I have been looking for since long. Everybody is sleeping, grandmother too. Grandma always finds an opportunity to lecture me about God and chantings. I think I have mastered the ability to listen and to not listen, thanks to her. My thoughts are too loud at times. But now, they are nothing more than a whisper. But the words are crisp and I can listen and understand everything I am thinking. I am thinking about unicorns now. I have taken a fancy to them. Nikunj, my friend has told me about Freddy the unicorn. My mind revolves around finding Freddy the unicorn. So, I named the script that I am writing, “On finding, Freddy the unicorn.” Will I find him? Only time will tell.
Closed in a room, my imagination becomes the universe, and the rest of the world is missing out.
A few hours back I was reading, “Kafka on the shore” by Haruki Murakami. A good friend of mine suggested me that book. For now, all I can say is that it is an interesting book or rather intriguing. I am on page 28, chapter 6. No, wait, it is page 31. I will know that tomorrow when I read it again. This morning I debated whether to continue reading “Kashmir” by M.J. Akbar or “The birth of tragedy” by Friedrich Nietzsche. Or, should I begin with “Kafka on the shore”. Maybe the fact that I am reading three different books is giving me a headache, thus resulting in insomnia and therefore making me mad. I have a nice sense of logic. Perhaps I should become an engineer. Wait, didn’t I just pass the first year of engineering? Three more years and I shall become an engineer. Engineering keeps me sane. Anything mundane keeps me sane, but it isn’t the only thing that keeps me sane. I find sanity in bits and pieces. Like crumbled pieces of a LEGO doll. Why did I say Lego doll? Well, mind says what the mind thinks, but the same cannot be said for the mouth. Maybe I should I have said, “Like crumbled pieces of something.” But then I would have left things in ambiguity. I feel like eating some candy, but there aren’t any left in the house and it is 12:30am in the morning.
I have already said this once, I say it again… Gustav Janouch in his book, Conversations with Kafka, says:
“You describe the poet as a great and wonderful man whose feet are on the ground while his head disappears into the clouds. Of course, that is a perfectly normal image drawn within the intellectual framework of the lower middle-class convention. It is an illusion based on wish fulfilment, which has nothing in common with reality. In fact, the poet is always much smaller and weaker than the social average. Therefore, he feels the burden of earthly existence much more intensely and stronger than other men. For him personally, his song is only a scream.
Art for the artist is only suffering, through which he releases himself for further suffering. He is not a giant, but only a more or less brightly plumaged bird in the cage of his existence.”
Existence. I hate existing itself. What use is it of, if it doesn’t give me what I truly desire, what my soul (if I have a soul) desires… freedom. We are all running circles, no matter how many triangles or squares come in between. I don’t like trains much, but I am thinking of them right now. Choo! Choo! There is a word to describe words that describe sounds. Right now I am too obsessed with them, but I am too lazy to find out that word right now.
Bread and butter don’t go with pebbles found on the seashore. Why? Because pebbles are not edible.
I am calm. Nice, I like it. I am thinking should I publish it or not. Ah! Well, bread and butter don’t go with pebbles found on the seashore, but I found them together all the same. I can’t help it.
I should stop now.
1 sheep, 2 sheep, 3 sheep, 4 sheep…