Saturday, January 2, 2010

Curiosity and the Cat

I've never contemplated ending my life.Or by any other name; suicide.
For some reason it has never crossed my mind.

This is not a reply to any post.But reading those posts made me wonder.
Wonder why?
And Why not?

I don't think of suicide as sin.
I don't believe in the concept of sin.

To believe in 'sin', one has to believe in a cosmic scorecard and also
a cosmic scorekeeper.

God! What is an athiest supposed to believe in ?
(that was a joke)

Do you think Jesus really cares if I lusted after a woman?
Aren't all men supposed to think about sex every seven seconds.
If that's the case, how many men do you think there are in
heaven?(Apart from the pope and Micheal Jackson)
And finally, wasn't Jesus a man? (was he an exception to the 7 second
rule, or was he exempt because of his influential dad?)

Goddamit Dad! Just tell St.Peter to open the Pearly Gates and let me in.

I don't really love Mary Magdalene.
She's is just a girl.
We're just friends.
We didn't do nothing.
Honest!

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The closest I've come to suicide is in my dreams of flying.
And falling.
A recurrent childhood dream of mine was that I am riding my bicycle on a cliff.
In my dreams,I rapidly pedal towards the edge of the cliff.
And I don't stop.
I never stopped.
Instead I soar over the cliff and I see down below me, the landscape
that is afar,all the things tiny and insignificant and slowly growing
bigger.
The air rushes past me, as I fall down still clutching on to the
handlebars of my bicycle.
No fear.
I rush towards oblivion with a growing sense of excitement.
And I wake up before I hit the ground.

In my more recent recurring tamer version of the former dream,
as I go down a flight of stairs, I miss a step and fall.
It is a very visceral dream, in which I'm jerked awake before I hit
the ground.A book on astral projection tells me that the above dream
is a sign that the etheric body is partially leaving the physical
body.But fear makes it come back into the physical body which causes
the violent jerking that wakes me up.
I'm not making this up.

But I would love to be able to leave myself behind and go someplace new.
No baggage.
No body.


Then there is the vicarious death that I go through.

I'm obsessed with death.I know my own mortality.

But I'm going to die anyway.So why hasten it with suicide.
I don't believe in reincarnation.I think it is a horrible concept.I
don't want to believe in it.
I think this is the only life I'll ever have.That's reassuring.

I'm not afraid of death.It's pain that I'm more afraid of.
Life is fragile.I can die any moment.
While tying my shoelaces,when taking a shit,in my sleep,while walking
on the street.
I know I can die just like that.
Or maybe live a long and fruitful life brimming with stories.
There is absolutely no certainity in life.

With no certainity, how can one expect hope?
Hope is a belief of a better tomorrow.It's a wish.
And hope at best is a glorious lie.
At any moment, all your hopes can be dashed, smashed into smithereens,
or all that you've ever dreamt of can come true.
There is no certainity here either.

I was disgusted at myself because I always killed my male
protagonists.To me Death, seems to be the only natural end to a
story.I've even written a story about Death (personnified); an aging
cowboy who longs to die.Death meets his end by his protege, someone
who he killed a few years ago and feels guilty about it.
Death is killed by Death.She lops of his head with a scythe while
riding her hog(her bike).He drops down from his horse and dies.I wrote
this before I saw the Movie'Ghostrider'.
I never showed that story to anyone.I don't plan to.

I wanted my stories to be uplifting and not end with 'and they all
died in the end'.
So I started writing with female protagonists in mind.
I cannot inflict harm to a woman even in fiction.I can never kill a
female protagonist.But there lies a strange discontent when I let the
protagonist live at the end of the story.The story seems strangely
unfinished.
If I cannot find closure in my stories,to me they are unfinished.
I cannot show them to anybody.

But in killing my male protagonists, have I satisfied my morbid
curiosity of my own death?
Is this a vicarious version of suicide?

I've always felt worthless in the face the world.That has been my
biggest crippling dysfunction.
It makes me very uneasy to face the world.
How in the grander schema am I worth anything?

A dangerous self belief is that I don't deserve anything in life.
The world owes me nothing and I owe it nothing either.
I didn't ask to be here.I don't know how I got here.I didn't want to
be here anyway.
And I don't know when I'll be leaving.


Also I see the pointlessness of everything.It is pointless to convince
you that these are my beliefs.It is pointless to hurt somebody.It is
pointless to reminisce over past wounds.It is pointless and absurd.
People being blind to absurdity.That's the funniest thing I keep seeing.
I take it a notch higher.Absurdity is my calling card, my one way
ticket to...wherever absurdity leads me.
My words are empty and filled with vague generalizations.

And tommorrow might not be a better day.
Even that is a lie.

The truth is tomorrow is tomorrow.

But what keeps me alive is something else.
It is curiosity.

I'm hooked on to life because I'm curious to know what happens in the
next episode, or even the next season.
I'm curious to know how many encores I have left in me.
I'm curious to know how much influence I can exert to influence in
shaping my life and pushing it forward.
I'm curious to know how many farewell tours I will host.
I think I'm done with bad metaphors for now.

More than happiness,fear,hope or the stinking sweet smell of future
success - I'm banking heavily on my curiosity to go through my life.
One step at a time.

One page at a time.

One day at a time.

I want to know how much I can know.

I want to know how much I can push my limits.

There is no precautionary tale here.
Curiosity never killed the cat.

For better or worse,
'Curiosity kept the cat alive and kicking',
and off the ledge to oblivion.

I wish you could step back from that ledge my friend.

--
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2 comments:

  1. and you believe the cat has 9?

    ReplyDelete
  2. Even then I have nothing against life
    I know the grass blades you mention
    the furniture you have placed under the sun..

    Death's a sad bone, bruised you'd say,
    and yet she waits for me, year after year,
    to so delicately undo an old wound,
    to empty my breath from its bad prison..

    balanced there suicides sometimes meet,
    raging at the fruit, a pumped up moon,
    leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
    leaving the page of the book carelessly open
    something unsaid, the phone off the hook,
    and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

    -- Anne Sexton http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171275

    ReplyDelete