An odd, disjointed post

Silence. Some feel oppressed by it, some live with it. I love it, just as I love darkness. I love it just as I love sound, just as I adore light. Everyone sees the world in different ways; I see it in these terms – silence, noise, darkness and light. We have already assigned value to everything. Dark is bad, light is good; as for silence and noise, both have their virtues and vices – silence may be peace or death, noise may be chaos or life.

I can wish and hope that I will live in a quaint village far away from ‘the maddening crowd’, but the reality is, I have always lived in cities, plonked right into the centre of humanity. Life hurries past, its impatience and breathlessness is stunning. Why does no one wait? Why does no one look a person in the eye? Why the shuffling, pushing and hurrying? Where are they all going? No, I am not trying to ask some profound existential question - seriously, where the hell are they all going? I imagine them running through their days, mechanical, schedule bound, day in and day out – and suddenly, stunned, surprised – they are 70 and life as they know it, youth, has passed them.

Life, as I know it, is baffling at times. What is our purpose? At 20, we battle confusion and anxiety to answer this very question, some lucky ones come up with answers that satisfy their minds, while the rest just muddle their way through life, or so I suppose. For me, life is one huge learning process - but for all that learning, we get only one shot at it. So next time I am confronted with a big decision, I suppose I should remind myself of this: one life, one chance. No regrets. In the end, I will be worm food. Might as well make my journey toward the inevitable more eventful. So, I will continue to wear my childish socks, and love my colourful laces, and I will continue talking to myself. I will write here even if no one read this, though I sure as hell will try to make people read it. I will continue to watch sitcoms and dramas till I lose interest in them, and not care that I haven’t listened to, or don’t like, classic rock bands.

Wait. Watch. Breathe. Now go.

The Dream

I had a dream that I owned a house. My own place. It was a strange place, not that I expect any home of mine to be any different. Cozy.

There seemed to be no front door to this home of mine (Psychologist friends, have a field day with that one). It was small, just a bedroom and a kitchen (even in my dream, my mind is clear about the fact that I have no money).

I had to break into my own house, by the way. I climbed up a fire escape, and ended up in a corridor. To my right was a window, the kind that slides up, and I entered my house through that window, knocked over something that was on a desk under said window. My bed was next to the desk. Plenty of cushions, lots of reds, browns, and greens. Books everywhere, a small table lamp. There is no phone.

Through beaded curtains on the right, and there is a wash basin behind another curtain, and right ahead of me is a well sized kitchen. (Where is the bathroom? Where are all the French windows I always wanted?)

I worry in this house of mine, because of that darned window. What if someone breaks in through it? I look for the front door, but I cannot find it.