LADYBIRD

Fiction has got to be personalized, or wait maybe I need to rephrase that. One can dream, but he’d still be himself when he dreams, which means that although a dream can be a dream it cannot be someone else’s, like that of someone other than yourself. In other words, I can dream situations that I never have been/will never be in, but what I should/will never forget is to dream it the way I do (although this could slightly sound like I’m making ‘dream’ a little more tangible than it actually is, I really am not but merely inducing a certain physicality which I believe to be allowed when coming to a realm of sub-conscious control) and experience what needs to be felt from inside my own virtual skin. This could be my justification or explanation for fiction, and the fact that writers get away even with contradicting themselves on paper.

“This isn’t a free world at all, however bestial a life we’re allowed to live; however far we’re allowed to stray, it’s not like the jungle is ours man… This society is a fucking zoo, and just because we’re in a really big cage, or on an infinite leash, we shouldn’t assume ourselves to be born free to live free, should we?”

It’s one of the weirdest experiences (or so I’ve felt) having to read myself and I’m not referring to the ‘recent past’ when I say this, it’s more like the version of mine that could not even exist right now (considering the two intermediate years) or which could have evolved, upgraded or maybe even grown contradictory, which means that I could either hate or laugh at what I had written because what I penned was what I was and that means laughing at myself for what I’ve been, and it’s certainly not a very scary thought considering it’s what moves life ahead in the first place, this acceptance of evolution, of change. I’m talking about ‘Ladybird’ here, the girl from my ‘delusional clarity’ paradigm and this isn’t a recent thought, by the way, it’s been chugging along for a little bit and I’ve probably been thinking of rewriting her for the past couple of months and I sort of found myself held stalemate by myself and the last couple of days have probably given me reason enough to bring her back, you know, hit the road with her again because I ironically find myself right where I left last time, except that the world’s spun around for a year more and I’ve spun with it too, which means that my ‘Ladybird’ would smell something pretty different this time around, perhaps musk aroma on deo-spray (that’s a shot in the dark, though, I hardly know what those two smell like).

Always wanted to be a magician, you know, one struggling for shows, shabby clothes and fancy tricks and all that. And this time around, there’s the intention to make the girl more empowering than the selfishness I showed last time around, a slight motive to unite causes and definitely look at a different climax, which in itself would be better than the previous one, considering one can’t get lower than that.

At this point of time, I sincerely hope I do justice to it.

ANTI-THESIS - DRAFT ONE

A long thought process, this. Started with a death that I felt nothing about, save for fear at a very personal level, not involving the world. Actually, it started pretty much before that, about a week, I guess, and I just had this little thought, a line that bumped into my head:

"existence is but a little more

than the absence of the same"

Fairly deconstructive, if you look deeper than the surface (although, I don't think you'd have to look that deep, really). But on the whole, it's an excuse. To me, 'living' has been but a sort of duel against the odds ('odds' in plural, I'm singular) and this new way of looking at things can mean two things at the same time, to two different people. There'd be the existentialist, who'd like to 'live' and live to the full and he (or she. No gender issue over here, but I'm a boy) would interpret this as a go-ahead and not get obstructed by obstructions because 'obstructions' are only at the other end in the concept of a 'free road', and what's an obstruction today can only become a free road, because that's what it's defined to be. Of course, this is just one party I'm talking about, while the other could take this to be a depressed state of mind that's like, "I'm only an inch from death and I'm feeling happy about it. How's that?!" and it's more like a challenge to oneself to get depressed because that's what one feels he (again, no gender issue) ought to be doing, so I guess you just do what you think you ought to, even the most emotionally constrained.

"Everest:

you're ever so low,

standing upon you, now

there's nothing to score;

filling the seats,

in fighting ignominy,

there's just too much

of being, in being, to be;

I want my house to stand, still:

I go easy on the tilt;

not a sound louder than my mind,

but it's alright, it's alright;

a figment of freedom,

a bit of outside when within,

I know I'm already out, but then

I'd only find my way in, again."

First-up, I think my writing sucks right now and that I shouldn't go ahead with it until I'm sure I'd like it, because hating oneself is not the most desired thing to be doing. At least, to me.

On my part, though, this is pretty much an 'Anti-Thesis', but I do not know to what. Maybe it's a counter to myself, to whatever I've felt and I'm just thwarting the genuinity of feelings, maybe I'm telling myself that this is all there is, like how Matthew Pitt concentrates the universe to a point, with the thought-provoking monologue in Bertolucci's 'Dreamers', and I do not really know what I get to gain or lose from this.

I'd let you know when I'm anywhere closer to sure, but then again, what's 'sure'?