Thursday, February 19, 2004

I am very very very frustrated. It seems to be one of those things-will-not-go-your-way weeks. And I hate it. Hate it from the bottom of my monologic, underlined, control-freak existence. I hate it. I did say that before, didn't I? Well, I'm saying it again. Hate it. And I'm bored and annoyed with coping. All I want to do right now is kick up my heels and throw them at somebody. The way the trends are going, I'll probably miss by a mile.

A wise friend once lent me a tale. He said that the biggest mistake I could ever make was to make somebody else's story my story. I am what I am and it has nothing to do with what anybody else is. But the problem is that I want what I want and it has everything to do with what somebody else doesn't. It is not as bubble-trapped as I would like it to be. I crave to be Tolstoy and should ideally want to be Dostoevsky, but all I can ever be is folklore, street-rabble and shadow play. These polyphonic voices are bursting my eardrums and threatening my sanity.

Is a craving an addiction? Is an addiction a vice? Is a vice simply the 'other' to a virtue? Will you buy me a ticket to the asylum?

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