The Verve classic. Rarely have truer words been said than those in this song. I think I have given enough indication of what's about to follow, so here goes.
I think the stress is getting to me. I'm sitting out here alone on the terrace in quite chilly conditions, clad in nothing but a jacket and a blue mood. Why? I wish I knew. I can never predict these phases. Best I can do is ride them out and hopefully still be comparatively sane. So I sit here on the rough floor, straining to see the keys in the dim light of the monitor as the world moves on at its own merry pace.
I'd love to understand myself someday. I have this mental picture about how I should behave in every possible situation so that I'm a credit both to myself and the society at large, to fit unobtrusively in the fold for a change and not stick out like a sore thumb. But I guess the wiring is faulty somewhere. The message never gets communicated properly. End result, I'm pouring my heart out at three in the morning while normal people sit cuddled up in blankets inside their comfy rooms and wonder what this idiot is up to now.
It's a wonder people can tolerate me. It's a miracle that I have friends. What can I offer? Zilch, nada, a big round zero. I'm the most insignificant of microcosms in this infinite universe of ours. I'm the scraping at the bottom of the rubbish bin, the puny runt that always get eaten first by the wolf. So what if I have a way with words? What would that achieve? Black blotches on paper are not going to get me anywhere. I'm bound to become part of the flotsam and jetsam that wash up every now and then on the barren sands where life ends and oblivion begins.
I'm in my room now. The cold won out. Warmth is slowly returning to my system, but my psyche is still imprisoned in an overpowering miasma. This cocoon won't give birth to beauty, it will reveal the despair that dwells behind the hope, the tears that hide behind the asinine smile. I'm not sure who is the real me. Maybe these two facets are inextricably mixed, with each one periodically popping up to the surface under the influence of some arcane rhythm that I'm yet to fathom. Most I can do right now is to let these thoughts out so that the bile doesn't do undue damage.
I think the stress is getting to me. I'm sitting out here alone on the terrace in quite chilly conditions, clad in nothing but a jacket and a blue mood. Why? I wish I knew. I can never predict these phases. Best I can do is ride them out and hopefully still be comparatively sane. So I sit here on the rough floor, straining to see the keys in the dim light of the monitor as the world moves on at its own merry pace.
I'd love to understand myself someday. I have this mental picture about how I should behave in every possible situation so that I'm a credit both to myself and the society at large, to fit unobtrusively in the fold for a change and not stick out like a sore thumb. But I guess the wiring is faulty somewhere. The message never gets communicated properly. End result, I'm pouring my heart out at three in the morning while normal people sit cuddled up in blankets inside their comfy rooms and wonder what this idiot is up to now.
It's a wonder people can tolerate me. It's a miracle that I have friends. What can I offer? Zilch, nada, a big round zero. I'm the most insignificant of microcosms in this infinite universe of ours. I'm the scraping at the bottom of the rubbish bin, the puny runt that always get eaten first by the wolf. So what if I have a way with words? What would that achieve? Black blotches on paper are not going to get me anywhere. I'm bound to become part of the flotsam and jetsam that wash up every now and then on the barren sands where life ends and oblivion begins.
I'm in my room now. The cold won out. Warmth is slowly returning to my system, but my psyche is still imprisoned in an overpowering miasma. This cocoon won't give birth to beauty, it will reveal the despair that dwells behind the hope, the tears that hide behind the asinine smile. I'm not sure who is the real me. Maybe these two facets are inextricably mixed, with each one periodically popping up to the surface under the influence of some arcane rhythm that I'm yet to fathom. Most I can do right now is to let these thoughts out so that the bile doesn't do undue damage.
4 comments:
And so the literal transformation does not affect the figurative world...
Take this from someone who has seen more red moons than you have:
Ask her out already you twit!
Love.
Miasma is a nice word.
You can't be all that bad. You are related to me. (There is comfort in narcissism)
Plus when you write, people read. That is not what just anybody can boast of.
And as to Betty's suggestion, "Hear hear."
No, really, hear her.
ok ok point taken. don't go by what i wrote here. this is just a vent. as to the other thing, soon. don't worry about that.
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