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.

Spill it, won’t you?

Today, as I was holding a cup of coffee over my laptop, I felt suddenly an urge to let the cup tip over and the coffee spill onto the keyboard. And then I could experience first-hand the permanence of the destruction. All my saved work would be lost and I would have to begin each assignment afresh, with only the remnants of now deceased to guide me. I would regret it thoroughly of course; and I would chide myself for having been so foolish. So why was it, that even after reason had furnished such a compelling case to not overturn my cup of coffee, I still felt the urge to do so? Why does the self rage against so healthy an inhibition? I am thus very afraid that I might one day succumb to that mighty, reason-less urge, and destroy my own life.

Absurd feelings

I feel like a stranger in the world; like a fig tree in the desert, a bird in a cave, a mole on the mountain peak, a lion in the Pacific. I am alone. And as I shiver amidst the sandy winds, as I thrust myself up towards an impenetrable ceiling, as I claw at the granite earth, roar against the vociferous tides, I recall those damnable words: friends, there are no friends! 


Tell me what to say so that my words may live through eternity and meet with the wearied architect of time. Tell me what to do so that my actions will not be chafed into obscurity by winding winds of the world. Tell me the secret to immortality.

Everything in this world seems to be of a temporal value. It is value formed by the nourishing breath of our consciousness. We are who breathe a world into the mountains of dust. It thus follows that when our consciousness should fail at the climax of some malicious illness, the value is lost and the world returns to meaningless dust. Whatever I have done in this bracket of consciousness shall then return to the void from which it was birthed. Still more frightening is that we shall never be able to recall from that infinite nothingness what has passed before, what full lives we have led, what beauty we have discovered, and not even from a nostalgic reminiscence will we be allowed to find comfort and delight.

It seems then that nothing is truly worth pursuing in this short span of mortality. But immortality; immortality lets us follow time to its death. Where human death marks the end of a sentence, the death of time marks the end of the essay. Beyond time’s passing lies nothing, not even a vacuum. It is without description, and in attempting to describe its obscurity, the description is immediately made erroneous. Only when time itself submits to non-existence, when I know with utmost certainty that there can exist nothing beyond – only then will I contend that I have done all in my power, and with all that the universe has provided me, to realize true value in everything. And only then shall I have succeeded, even in failure, since my failure would imply that there is no conceivable solution to success and that all success depends solely on discovering every form of failure.


Because I have nothing to write about, I shall write something. My passion rebels against my inadequacies. It sees no reason why it should be stopped by a vacuum. But how to write in an all-consuming vacuum?

Because I have something to say to someone, I shall not speak a word. By defying the regularity of the moment, I am made the master of reality. What ought to be said all of a sudden goes missing, and what the future has prepared for the present goes to waste. Eternity has to reconfigure itself because I chose in that instant to not speak what I ought to have spoken. But this superiority which I gain for myself is as ephemeral as the instant itself. As soon as the future prepares a new outcome for the present; as soon as eternity reconfigures itself, then I would have lost my position. I am once again a slave to the universal scheme of all things.

Because I am expected to act in certain ways, I shall refuse to act at all or act to the contrary. There is no such thing as sanity. I can act in the most absurd ways but still retain my sanity. For what is sanity but that which you have defined by your perceptions. Beyond my consciousness, I may be considered insane; people will wonder whatever caused that poor person to ‘snap’. But I have not snapped. I have merely realized that what we call ‘normal’ is but a convincing lie told to us by ourselves – we are after all most gullible to our own deception. And there is such delight to be found in overturning this lie. Decorum thus ceases to matter. I am free, like a bird.