I am a shallow man, a tired, sick man. That’s not just a Dostoevskian philosophy I am charading here. I’d rather be Camusque in my pretentious zone. So, why do I think I am a shallow man? It’s not that I have not tried to be otherwise. You see, I find beauty in beauty, outer beauty in a woman. I have tried the skin deep kind of thing but it didn’t work for me. Recently, I encountered a smart lady – she wasn’t pretty, at least not in my eyes. She did not get my testosterone rolling so I gave up. I feel pretty shit about that. Actually, I don’t. I feel she was not for me, for all the niceties she had. I could not think deep. Would I rather be with a dumb pretty bimbo than a smart ugly woman? Yes, that’s me. I know, you are judging me or thinking I am a fool to confess that in public domain. But that’s the core. I’d rather be drunk in love or feel solitude as it often express to me – maddening yet pleasing to my intellect. There is no middle path. Well, I do preach middle path, but I rarely follow it. I love the storm, the madness, the cruel pain of love, as it has come to be defined. I like difficult women, I like them tantalising me – makes me feel alive.
Well, women and me is a complex subject. Anyway, this shallowness makes me feel good, as I said. I like to be swayed away. Rationality goes out of the window. Lately, I have resisted falling in love. I feel urges flowing through my veins and I just watched them like a mouse resisting a dangling piece of fresh cheese. I think it builds resistance and endurance and all the yogic qualities in me. I might never be able to tone down the urges in this lifetime, but I’d rather be in that foolish stupor than on a wild goose chase.
Sometimes I like red. Yes, that bloody, mind nauseating colour. I feel like being drowned in red. Nature hardly gives us red. It gives us the greens and the blues and all those earthy hues. Mostly, I don’t like the red. I like the white. It’s flowy. I wish there was a mind numbing color. Most evoke emotions and feelings. It’s those damn senses, those unnamed cells of perceptions. Yogis transcend them, as they say. I feel one has to endure them. There is no other way. Well, there is. You give in. But that is so ordinary, and no one remembers ordinary. Greatness is an all-stake gambler’s game. One who abandons the path of least resistance and choose the proverbial less walked. Are we ready to show all our cards and put the stakes on the table? You win all or lose all. It depends on how badly you want to win all. Your life can be a worthless piece of shit if you lose all. Forget greatness, you won’t be remembered at all. But then that’s what all great people did. Gambled everything. Are you ready, I ask? Are you willing to break the glass wall, destroy all that is called home and endure that shreds of glass that make home in your skin forever? Are you ready to make that inner whisper into a scorching scream? To be nothing before you can risk being everything? If yes, go ahead my boy. Chosen ones are sometimes made too.
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