A tale from a dreamer. . .

Perhaps It is a question of point of view. Which is individualistic. Or perhaps it is that- expected out of you because majority find it so.Or because society has branded it as the way to go.
How possible is it for consciousness to sit on the same table with the material world? Eat and drink from breakable plates and cups respectively?
The existence of consciousness, how firm is it , in expressivity of this it’s inherent flow?
I think it as an illusion.
But in thinking so, I pause. . .If it is an illusion as I think, then I have to exist. These among other questions exhaust my body, mind and soul with so much anxiety. I scratch my head like a chicken beaten by the rain.
I am a complete loss to attention even when someone is speaking to me. Amidst the crowd, the noise, the un-settledness, I seem stuck in a nest of loneliness. I forget to lay my bed. I don’t do my homework. I forget to iron my clothes and polish my shoes. I can’t learn my lines in drama.worse still, I fail to live in the moment during a given rehearsal period.
It creates so many challenges in my life. My Director says: ‘You could do this .’ Or: ‘You could easily make that character But you don’t care enough.’ I have been to beaches of solitude. Pampered myself on a meditation lane. I have swiftly sailed on a wave lane of positivity. But never a diagnosis. They just say that I am a dreamer.
A dreamer in a world which is unsafe. A dreamer in a world that does not entertain dreaming. A dreamer in a world that always beats dreamers. A dreamer means child. So I need to become an adult. I need to grow up and do material things. So that I am stable. So that I can buy a plot of land one day and get myself a wife and produce children and make a home. So that I am not just trapped beneath a bridge—thinking these thoughts. Pondering about and visualising.
But who knows how hard finding that energy is? Before I begin I must know if life is absurd. I can’t live in an illusion. I want to be in the moment. I want to be mentioned. I want to be a tree and stop admiring it. I want to be lucid. I need that assurance that I am doing things for a reason. That I am giving out energy for a reason.That I am a continuation of a template that was once and is and yet.
If death is the end of all this– and nothing but emptiness after that– then it’s a terrible problem.
But is it?
It would be better to not exist than to exist in a world without meaning.”

3 thoughts on “BRUISES ON MY BLOG

  1. Once again, thanks for writing. I suppose, and correct me if I’m wrong, that this is an expression of what disturbs you from within, and I applaud you for resorting to writing as a form of self-therapy that can even be extended to others globally.

    I believe, and I again stand to be corrected, that you can re-write this and make it briefer than before and yet still potent. Also, rectify the grammatical errors of SPELLING and PUNCTUATION. For example, you referred to “Irony my clothes” instead of “IRON MY CLOTHES” and some others.

    Again, thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

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