Post-boredom examination

My eyes are searing even though I’ve had them closed for a long time; my hearing is cloudy even though I’ve had them soothed with silence; my limbs are languished even though I’ve had them rested on comfortable fabric; my head is hurting even though nothing is bothering me; my inward self is empty even though everything around me lend themselves to fill it.

What does it mean to create? People say that writing is creating, but I don’t think I’m creating anything at all. All I’m doing is repeating the things in my head, and repeating what many people have said before, only in a marginally different fashion. To create is to create something worthy of contemplation and admiration. But I’m doing nothing of that; I’m writing only to my heart’s content, and to no other person’s pleasure; like the wave that curls and glissades in the most distant and isolated parts of the sea.

Nocturnal Animals: (1) Art is meaningless. (2) Material does not give genuine happiness. (3) Writing about yourself will get you nowhere. Great film, by the way.

A few seconds ago, I wrapped myself up in a honeycomb. And a few seconds later, I escaped from it, and wondered whatever the purpose of it was. It was a misadventure, I told myself. But that surely couldn’t be, my reason objected; since everything that a person does must have a motivation. Maybe I wanted to be like a bee, buzz, buzz, buzz. But what good is being a bee? Honey, that’s what’s good; sweet, golden honey.

The garden, once a splendid verdure, is now a pale brown. No one’s come to fix it yet – no one bothers. The sun and rain try their best to return the garden to its once glorious form, but the brown decay is resilient. It will not go back to the garden it was before. Now, a new life has taken it over; one not of beauty, which once it had prized so vehemently as a possession, but one of..

Yesterday, I was in the car, when a motorcyclist beside me lost control of his motorcycle and the whole thing tipped and toppled. Thankfully, there was heavy traffic, and the cars behind were moving very slowly. Everyone in the car had a scare. I felt my heart skipping a few anxious beats. How deficient is the imagination; for all the time, it convinces you that should something frightening happen, you would not be moved; but when something actually does happen, and even though, nothing terrible transpires, you feel the shock running through your bones – and you think: “I am human after all.”

Someone said something, and I started to laugh. I couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed all along the way home; and when I reached the front of my door, I was still laughing. I think some of the neighbors might have been woken up by my laughter, because I saw lights suddenly come on and a silhouette coming to stand at the window sill. But after I had stepped inside of my house, I stopped laughing. I had forgotten what it was that I had been laughing so furiously about.

Maybe I’ve been wrong these past few months – maybe I should be giving more time to those things which I am good at than those things which I think society wants. Once I though, follow your dreams. Then I thought, your dreams will lead you nowhere; you’ll be poor and depressed and have no friends. Then I thought, perhaps it is better to be a cog, to study what is necessary even though you don’t enjoy it, because that is simply how the world functions now. So that’s what I did, I tried to learn things I didn’t really enjoy, while tossing away those which I really did enjoy. Finally, I’m thinking now, follow your passion because it is your only chance of success.


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