A Confession

First, the confession : I suddenly realize that I dont want to do anything I am doing at this point in my life. I want to be me as I am, not me as I am NOW, but me as I REALLY am.

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The beat has been beating in my head, but I have been too stupid to notice it, too naive to hear it or shall I say, too Comfortably Numb. It has reached a crescendo though , this beat in my head (specially after I had the misfortune of watching a few movies and reading a few books that unfortunately washed away some of the crust that had deposited on my eyes), and has reached a pace, a sheer frightening rapidity that makes me fear its all going to spill out in a bloody mess sooner or later.Needless to say , it has come out of a rising feeling inside of me that what I am about to get out of my system is indeed something that I must get out before it is too late, though I haven't much of a clue what it would be too late for,because the situation I feel is already hopelessly irredeemable

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So now i'll proceed to describe to the hypothetical reader, whom I assume to be the absolute epitome of perfection (rather unfairly, I realize, but bear with me) this Beat that has been beating in my head and driving me irrevocably insane.

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When I was a kid , (which is not all that long back , at least in the world's frame of reference) I used to be very fond of retorting to anything that my parents suggested that i did not quite approve of (and there were quite a lot of such things) with an all encompassing, all pervading argument that I didnt want to turn into a "vegetable" .Of course, there were certain parameters I had in mind, and were they within certain ambiguously defined upper and lower bounds, I would attribute the term "vegetable" to that entity. Well, ladies and gentlemen, lo and behold, for it struck me a few days back that I am in fact vegetating. Leading that very state of existence that held so many horrors for me when I was younger.

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Of course, it isnt that bad. In fact , if you are sane enough (here sane is to be read as partially deaf,dumb, blind and completely incapable of independent thought, as I myself was some time back) , you would probably find me guilty of cribbing. You would ask, what does this guy want? He is leading a comfortable enought life. Attending to all his carnal needs. Why, he is even "doing well" . So what the hell can he be complaining about?

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Let me ask you to ask yourself, are you doing what YOU wanted to do. (Okay, that was a rhetorical). You know, I dont know how the world converted me. I dont know when my "baptisme a la feu" took place. I cannot pinpoint a certain point of time when I underwent that sudden change of "plans" . I only remember , in the long lost abyss of the past, that I wanted to be an adventurer, a lover, a poet, flying through dusty desolate roads on my harley with nowhere to go, no aim in mind . And the next thing I remember was that (and this wasnt so long back) , was that I wanted to get into IIT. The mind plays cruel tricks , doesnt it, for I cant pinpoint this "momentous" event when I inadvertently sung the Requiem to my own boyhood Dreams.

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It would probably be fair to say that I am the perfect everything, to everybody apart from of course myself. Maybe because you can wrong yourself and get away with it. Nobody complains, and even if someone does, you can always ignore yourself , isnt it? Its just that you have to cut all connections with yourself, so that you can't hear youself screaming for breath on whatever intercom system that your "self" might be using. I have never connected with any single individual in my whole life. In fact, that was precisely what struck me when I watched "Before sunset". I have lead a hollow existence, because , in Celine's words , if god exists, he doesnt exist In individuals, but rather in the space in between, in the process of understanding somebody, even if that somebody is yourself, He is brought out in that effort made. I have never understood myself, or anybody else, so you can comfortably label me as quite..ah.."Godless".

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I want to be blatantly honest. Its so much of a relief when one is honest. Its so much better when you can see around the corners. Blind corners are dangerous things indeed. I want to be blatantly honest, like Yossarian, the protagonist(??) of Catch 22. I want to go around naked when I want to, like Yossarian did.If I love someone, I want to be able to tell them. Most of all, I want to be able to honest to myself. I want to be able to not give a fuck for a thing I this world. But you know what? I cant. I dont have the guts , the pluck to live my life on my terms, for I have the mortal fear of being labelled the eponymous rebel, the quintissential Prodigal Son. And you know what? The society is seldom more cruel than it is when it is picking after these so called "Rebels". That is why, I prefer a slow death than being something that surely must feel like being hurled down from a two storeyed bulding onto a freshly cemented sidewalk, enough to incapacitate and paralyze you for life, and yet not enough to kill you off.(Oh yes, I forgot to add. All this is coming out in a forced moment of revelation. So the next time you meet me, dont be too surprised if I refute the aforestated statement.Infact in all likelihood I WILL say that I am not afraid of any kind torment, and other such blah blahs).So I am afraid there is absolutely no way I see I'll find myself , at least in this stint on Earth.

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Sometimes I feel I can hold it no further. I want to scream my brain out, though some of my friends tell me that would be a most horrifying way to perish.Sometimes I feel tempted to overstep the line here and there. But , never have I actually. That warning flash in my mind always precedes any such thoughts that might have been directed at "breaking the rules", So I have never actually considered doing so seriously, ever.And therefore, you could probably label me as a masochist, a harmless gutless pooped ninny pied masochist, who is one solely because he is too scared to hurt any body else, and yet has the incapacitating neccessity to inflict pain.I have the wings , but I am afraid to use it.I fear the air is too thin , too rareified, that it cannot hold my weight. I see myself hurling down the fleecy clouds, hitting the ground in a dull disgraceful thud, why, I can even see myself lying in that dusty unmourned heap.That is why I cant even dare to think to use these wings.

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But you know, one of these days, the way its going, I just might. And that day, I'll find myself, and something in me , something hitherto silent, unheard, just seems to tell me, that I'll be fine

I have no fucking idea what this is :-o

Ok. First of all, I have no fucking idea what this is all about, but you probably already got that from the title of this post. To cut a long story short, I "set out" to blog, and after sitting around for about an hour (with the odd porn clip thrown in) I suddenly remembered (dramatically of course, with appropriate Hitchcock style music playin in the background) that I have many unfinished unpublished posts, which I could publish. This one seems to be from three years back (:-o), and after reading it, it doth seem that I was (very) gay about three years back. However, that is besides the point. I have no fucking idea how I conceived this story would unfold. In fact, had I suffered head trauma and had my memory of the last three years wiped out, I can state with some certainty that one of two things would happen.

a) I would blame it on one my my currently gay friends who still can wield the ugly blade of flowery prose

b) I would actually know what the fuck I was thinking when i was writing this story, and hence probably know how this story was supposed to have ended

Reader must note that I do not quite know if memory wipeout reverts me to the state I was in three years ago, or leaves my state invariant and just erases my memory. But anyway. Help would be appreciated..

So here goes :

" It was a cold , damp, and oppressively still night. The air was thick with the sweet smell of death, as if death herself had descended on this barren wasteland ", He began. He had planned this for days. He hadnt written a blog entry for over a month.He had planned that he would write one starting exactly this way for days, in fact a week to this day to be precise, or "utterly precise" as he liked to say.He was happy, not to mention. He was, as we decent folk would say,
" a nice, dumb bloke" . He had an utterly maladroitly irritatingly unsettling habit of listening to the same song over and over and over again. He was, for instance playing "Zombies" for the fifth time today, and considering that the day was just two hours and sixteen minutes old, well, ladies and gentlemen, you have quite an achievement here. Anyway, back to his blog entry.

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"Nina glanced about herself furtively. She was a pale, a ghastly pale, and if she were to see herself in the state that she found herself , much to her own utter befuddlement , she would surely have a heartattack. It was beyond comprehension, at least beyond her comprehension. "

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" She was normal, as normal and unremarkable as a mass produced Japanese car. Till this moment that is, when even she could discern that her life had suddenly taken a totally inexplicable, but all pervading change . She was never overtly intellegent, in fact it would be fair to say that she had never said an intellegent thing in her life , but then she had never said a dumb thing in her life either.But she was intellegent enough to know there was something the matter with her. She was a sweet little spoilt girl. She knew that her mother was obnoxiously rich , and that she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Her father of course, was a Son Of a Bitch (and she had a fair idea of that too, though she never bothered to ask him to establish the authenticity of the aforesaid assertion). She had a , shall we say, a "life" , as is the fad to have nowadays . Why, There she was, just four hours ago it seemed, indulging in lascivious talk over luscious food with men as stupid as she herself was, and maybe as rich. She had gone back home from the party, content with life and whatever else she could content with, and had gone to sleep, happy with life, with the smile that this guy had flashed her, with the way that guy had looked at her. In short, she was a dumb , sweet bitch whose sole aim in life was to get laid by a handsome guy who had enough brains to help her from losing all her money."

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"Anyway,she had come back home, and being utterly exhausted from doing nothing, had gone straight to sleep. And then the next thing she could remember was that she had woken up on the cold bench in that park by the pond that her mother had forbidden her to play in as a child, on the pretext that it was where poor children played. In truth, however, it was a sense of dread that the park evoked in her , a strange and inexplicably eerie sense of dread , that prevented her from letting her daughter venture into that park. She could not explain it, and being a superstitous woman, did not make any attempts to, and simply forbade her daughter to play there. So her daughter never did. "

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"Her first reaction was one of utter shock, as it should be when the subject is not clinically insane, which she definitely wasnt.She had sat there with her mouth hanging like those ridiculous cartoons, for a good fifteen minutes or so. In fact it would be fair to say that if IT had happened in those fifteen minutes, she would definitely have died of the shock.