Tuesday, February 20, 2007

A conversation with oneself

I did it again. I spoke to myself over the phone. I seem to be doing everything possible to kill time. I spoke such great things to myself on the phone: I seem to become this other person who is actually talking to someone else and answering questions and giving replies. There is such a sense of possibility then, especially if someone’s watching, in being the centre of attention. I talked about a whole lot of things. Primarily, this sense that hovers above my head of something gravely meaningful when I am done with flowing the stories, the page has been made, the papers in the library read, when I am done with all of that, I sit at my desk, and wishing to not break the chain of thought that has kept me occupied, I go in search of meaning on the Web, and then, when Arts and Letters and Books Inq and googling my name and patrakaar2b and IMDb have had their fill, it’s a shock: it’s a shock to realise that me, the person, who looks for things privy in all places, who thinks of himself as arriving in all glory to the centre of things, things known only to himself — this person suddenly awaiting stimulation, with a sense of such dread, because the other side, after this sense of possibility is killed, after all that has been read and there is no more, is filled to the brim with frustration and ill will. It is a very scary thought to not know what will happen when you are done stimulating your mind, how this person, who ought to read books — ten thousand of them, watch movies — one hundred thousand, one after the other— who has such terrific notions of beauty to imbibe, to spread — feels the dread that comes with knowing that there is nothing more to do right now—in the confines of the work environment, which mandates doing work stuff— to know that in these confines, one can only do so much, one can only indulge so much, from reading reviews of books on Renaissance Art to blogs on underrated books — all of this knowledge one sided, without outlet. How does one gather so much without communicating it with another? How can one then not become one and the other— both simultaneously, so that this burst of passionate energy will find a vent — an outlet that will release the stanched flow? And then the call comes — the call for work, the order to return oneself to this other world, not necessarily of drudgery but another kind of involvement in which one must lose oneself to even begin to operate..quite different, if I may add, jostling for attention, a sort of perfection too, but the nervous kind, that which prevents you from failing but too much of it disappoints if not accompanied by a cult of perfection since one must be perfect in everything...imbibing everything..all of it..and this call necessarily means that one must hold oneself until one is free again, and so on and so forth. For everything must be finished in time...it should all meld together in one infinite chain of perfectible tasks. Until the day ends and one has had such a roller-coaster ride of expectation followed by practicality followed by more expectation that one wonders if knowing everything, understanding everything is possible. And what if it’s not; it’s just another day and you are drenched out!

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