The Real One

There is a point in our lives.  It probably comes in everyones lives.  On a different scale.  On a different level perhaps.  Disproportionate, but consistent nonetheless.  The point when you need to know which dreams to kill.  Long years in delusion, always striving for something more, without a burning passion just a fervent daydream to distract from reality.  But now, in a rut, in the stark and harsh reality of solitude, I realize that the time is here.  To kill my dreams.  All of them.  Strange though.  As goes hope, so does fear.  And stranger still, to miss that fear.  That fear was strangely, but resolutely tied to your fervent hopes and desires.  And then it goes, when the hope is extinguished.  All that is left is a horde of disjointed daydreams.  Its like a weird time warp.  The mind lives out several scenarios.  And as time passes, the origin of each scenarios changes and as the point of origin passes out in real time, the threads start pinching together.  Origins change, some of the scenarios/dreams fizzle out and new scenarios branch out.  

  But at some point, it needs to be nipped in the bud.  Getting reconciled with reality is a decidedly harsh thing.  It is infinitely easier to be living in the delusions, even when you know the eventual outcomes.  But there is just one problem.  Pining for glory after a certain point leaves you with no strength to even wallow in your mediocrity.  Just in my case mind you.  No generalisations here and today.  No arrogant, self aggrandizing, narcissistic rants about what we should/should not do, what the world needs, how it is and where its going wrong.  There, happy?  Now you actually have me ranting about MYSELF.  The one cardinal rule I had about blogging.  Gone.  Like the dreams.  Seems fitting in a way.  

   So here I am.  54 years old.  Accepting my fate.  Yes I am prepared to drown in the sea of mediocrity, under the harsh glare of reality.  But this isnt a struggle, one final flailing in a desperate, strength losing attempt to avert the inevitable.  Far from it.  This is acceptance.  As I sink peacefully into the seas of oblivion.  Oh yes.  About that 54.  They say you are as young as you feel.  That logic can be extended to old.  And rightly I should, considering the lifetimes I've lived inside my head.  I can only hope the daydreams stop.  Or I shall be moaning about this next year when I am sixty seven.  And be too lazy to even rant about it.  Umm, its 55 after 54 you say.  Wow, I really must be 54 to show such signs of senility.  Well guess what.  In here, your laws of time and space and physics do not apply.  Inside this head, its a twisted convoluted timewarp.  And time is exponential.  And only slows down during boring lectures/sessions/business meetings/awkward situations.  And the apple pies are laced with garlic.  Don't ask me why.  I am a senile old man who is going to go and sulk yet again.  Its not so good.  But not as distracting as a daydream.  And less energy consuming.  Also, you won't see me muttering to myself that much.  So there it is.  The reality check time.  You know how people say Grow Up all the time to some, and sometimes to everyone?  I think I will.  Grow up that is.  My Birthday gift to me.

                          Its Only Words...

Speech really is overrated.  Sounds became coherent, roots gave rise to words, words to verbosity, verbosity to flamboyance, flamboyance to arrogance, miscommunication, wars, more languages, more miscommunications, wheels within 

wheels, multiple connotations, tone, pitch intonation, complicated terminologies, then back to abbreviations and shortening of words and now return to the point of incoherence.  A full circle.

You idiot, you just claimed that there is only duality and opposing extremes, no circle.

Yes, but you did get the gist.  Speech is confusing and a waste of time.  If we could directly interface with our thoughts, a true meeting of minds.  There would be no room for duality, falsification, pointless verbosity and self aggrandising.  And no more grammar and verbs to think of.  Imagine that.

Uh huh, uh huh.  And I suppose the lyrics you keep quoting and those songs that you love.  They would somehow exist without the language?

Cmon guys, Music would still exist.  I am not banning or talking about absence of SOUNDS.  Just Words.  You don't pay attention.  Too busy looking to put in your own point.  Its not a goddamn GD for points or job.  Let us have a discussion.  So music would exist like I said.  And it would be instrumental.  And if words and lyrics never existed, you would never miss them.

This argument with words, where you use words to put people down and be mean ....

Would you rather I use my fists?  I am perfectly capable of doing that.

Shut up and listen.  Now who's interrupting.  These words, the snarkiness, the sarcasm.  You wouldn't have them without words.  

Hmm... and the Voices in my head.  Wouldn't be voices.

So the one relatively ok thing you possess.  The one measly, paltry thing you possess in the name of talent, nay basic human competence.  This humor.  That would be gone.

Funny could be slapstick.  Maybe the voices would be replaced by a Buster Keaton/Charlie Chaplin or Marx Brothers silent film.

Shut up.  Don't be absurd.  You know we are right.  Admit it.  You, more than anyone need the words.  Your only solace and salvation.

Fine.  You win.  I hate this.  Losing an argument.  With words.  And about words to boot.  I dislike losing debates.  I am going to go sulk now.  Piss off, the lot of you.

Oh thou Pineapple of my eye, how i Pine for thee!!!!

Broken hearts are apparently a big deal.  Not just people who have lost something, justifying for their loss by making up some vague consoling notion of having gained experience, life lessons, zen, deeper meaning, stared into cleansing flames and what have yous.  And none of that better to have loved and lost than to have not been such a schmuck/chump in the first place etc.  Naah, there seems to be some genuine gain there.  Somehow its like someone having ridden space mountain at disneyland.  You go to disneyland, you gotta try that.


   And so of course, its a great tragedy that I have never experienced love, let alone ill fated love.  Or its supposed to be.  How can I be creative.  How can I have musings without a muse.  So much for art.  Art is built in pain and loss.  And it has to be the pain of loss of love.  Nothing else will do.  Love is supposed to make you a better person and open up your horizons and instill acceptance and trust and stuff.  Its supposed to build character I daresay.  Or maybe that you deserved to be loved or had the capacity to love is supposed to speak volumes (not necessarily coherent volumes..for all you know they could be James Joyce ramblings) about you.   


   And then it hit me.  Pineapple.  Yes, a pineapple.  That green, ridiculous looking, crown wearing lump of yellow, juicy goodness.  I love pineapple.  I am apparently allergic to it.  Everytime i eat it, i get some itchy rashes on the roof of my mouth.  But then I forget the feel of the rashes, and the taste lingers as a faint phantom memory.  And so I eat again.  And then rashes.  And on and on it goes, this danse macabre.  So you see - Pineapple and I.  We are star crossed lovers.  There.  I have my epic tragedy in place.  So there.