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