A brief interlude

What is left really, after you plow through stacks and stacks of flawless logic, substantiated povs, and bombastical pseudo-realities?

A certain distaste for sunrise, and a waxing delight in moonshine.

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If life is but a dream, someone quick, wake me up!

I am getting seriously sick of mugging. Or at least the feeling of trying to mug. I mean, the feeling a of a guilty conscience breathing down your neck at every turn totally, (if i may use the epithetical expression of teenage angst) SUCKS. Now my daily schedule simply reads, 'wakeup, mug, go online, sleep', out of which only going online is a utility maximising affair. (Yes, econs! A good example of how mugging has assimilated itself into my life.) But even then, lots of precious time is wasted by me stoning in front of the screen before realising that my computer, who, posessed of gentle constitution, is waiting patiently for my password, the key to opening the gates of paradise. And after that, everything is just one big farce. I just sit around, pretending I am making the best use of my leisure time, typing the occasional hahas that make everything sound (quoting aaron) 'nice and amiable'. Indeed, this self delusion continues until one by one, people leave, and I am left with the quietness of an utopia I try so hard to resurrect. This superficiality is slowly getting to me as I get more adept with 'msn lingo', when my hands think faster than my mind, and wham! before I know it, a smiley is produced, a mocking monstroity of a cheeriness I didn't feel. Ah well, I feel like a druggie! I break out into cold sweat if I don't go online, and its not like haven't tried, but all cold turkey attempts have proved futile so far. So there's nothing stopping me from sinking deeper into the quicksand of superficiality. And all this while I am advocating being one's true self!

this calls to mind an old sec 2 poem. (I have been flipping through old writing and feeling kind of sad about the loss of what perhaps one would call "a childishly optimistic view of the world", which is why i wrote revisitng innocence in the first place, but yes, it is extremely difficult, if not impossible to go back. Not that maturity is bad, in blake's terms its just a contrary state, yet one can't help but feel nostalgic about those days when life was so easily embraced and celebrated.) As part of some e-learning project we were all supposed to write poems and post it up on the net. This one I wrote is from the point of view of a sleeping pill, who advises its sleep-deprived master not to look too deeply into things, sounds like a sanctioning of superficiality, but no, not really.

Sleeping PIll

You think too much, my lord, my lord
What everything might seem to be
'Behind the stars there poetry lives
beneath a smile a motive grim.'
My Lord, you go to such extremes!
Trust only but what eyes can see
A better place the world would be
Our life runs deep in mediocrity.

'Trust only but what eyes can see/A better place the world would be.' That's only if what you see is what really is.... oh well. endearing naivete. But well, what can truly withstand the ravages of time? I am tempted to say hope, but that sounds like an answer intended to illict 'oohs and aahs' from a less discerning audience. I shall not attempt to play sage and pass judgement on things and concepts beyond my comprehension. 'Trust only but what eyes can see.... '

i guess it's back to me and my notes.