Mr. Dithered

Don’t read it. This verbiage of mine is verbose and profoundly sinuous.

Abstract. But so is life. Isn’t it? Correct.

Isn’t it strange? You hardly know the person; you have hardly spent time with her; and now you are sad that perhaps you would never see her again? Yeah, that’s strange. What causes you miss someone, or something. Is it some kind of emotion, or something else? Is it some kind of camaraderie, bonhomie, or just a flimsy stupor? What do you actually feel when you go smitten and the object of interest is not around?

It tore me apart as if I were a frail, brittle, fragile piece of silk. And I stood there condoning to the beguilement of the destined situations. Amazing. I tolerated that. With all my conscience, heart, brain, with my every nerve and notion, I tolerated that. And now, I feel confused: did I tolerate or did I actually survive the forecasted barrage. To hell with it.

Why am I writing all this? Who am I trying to fool? Myself or the world? This world has no interest in whatsoever matter I deal with, or I am in with; it’s always indifferent, disinterested, always…then what is this I am into? Perhaps I am playing with myself. Ah! That’s not new. I have done it all my life.

Whatever…sometimes you can’t find a reason to do something because there is no reason, at least not any valid, society-accepted, moral, ethical and all those bullshit kind of reason…and you do it precisely because there is no reason for doing it…sometimes reasons go backstage, you have to come forward, because if you won’t, never again would you be able to stand for anything else…sometimes you need to stand straight, firm, in spite of the knowledge that the fight is over, the winner is announced, the crown is gone; because if you won’t, you would never be able to stand up again…sometimes you got to lose yourself in order to find yourself back…sometimes life puts you in such complexity that you need to believe that ‘everything here is essentially very simple’…sometimes it happens like this…there is no one, absolutely nothing, but you want to see something, you want to believe that there is something, you want to hear voices, you want to hear your name, you want to hear strange words, strange silence, and there life goes all strange. Strange. Isn’t it? So whatever was the reason, I don’t give a damn to it, I am going to write it.

But who am I writing this for? Who would read this crap of mine? Can’t say. Does everyone write for others? Do everything you do, think, imagine are meant for others? Is it like that you live for others, you die for others? What is then your life, my life, huh… – a kind of vicarious life? I will be happy by seeing others happy; I will be sad by their sadness. What am I doing – it’s dangerous. Good god! It’s perniciously dangerous. Why can’t I live for myself? Why must I be selfless, why not selfish? They say: ‘if everyone make every other man happy, the whole world will become happy eventually’. It’s crap, I say. An easier way would have been to make yourself happy and if everyone is happy, the world would become happy someday. I should make myself happy; you should make yourself happy. Why should I bother for you? Why…? It’s my life after all and it is for me, why can’t I write something that’s storming inside me only for my sake, my own bloody sake. No…I will. I will become selfish. I will become self-centered – an egotist. I will write if for myself.

Hell… yes…I will write it because later I would read it.

Because later I will see my pain; because later I will see how I conquered it; how did I traverse that impasse; I will see everything in hindsight and will laugh over my own decision to write it.