I’m entrapped by the litter of good reads around me. The hour-long escapade to my favourite nook has been my saving grace from the horrible run of events this July. I thought I would be hallowed out from work; scraped dry and too defeated to lean on any understanding. I was pretty sure I would “contract” logophobia after this stint. Funny how I found myself steering back to a thirst for literature and debates. I want to be provoked by reason and awakened by schools of thought. I quaffed enough for a weekend, but I want something substantial to last the week and all the waking moments in between.
Do you know what I would answer to someone who asked me for a description of myself, in a hurry? This:
For indeed my life is a perpetual question mark–my thirst for books, my observations of people, all tend to satisfy a great, overwhelming desire to know, to understand, to find an answer to a million questions. And gradually the answers are revealed, many things are explained, and above all, many things are given names and described, and my restlessness is subdued. Then I become an exclamatory person, clapping my hands to the immense surprises the world holds for me, and falling from one ecstasy into another. I have the habit of peeping and prying and listening and seeking–passionate curiosity and expectation. But I have also the habit of being surprised, the habit of being filled with wonder and satisfaction each time I stumble on some wondrous thing. The first habit could make me a philosopher or a cynic or perhaps a humorist. But the other habit destroys all the delicate foundations, and I find each day that I am still…only a Woman!
– Anaïs Nin
There’s a inherent danger in believing–or investing trust. I’m quick to be engulfed by profound thought and simple truths. In that same vein, I flip with disregard in tangent to fallacies and less structured arguments.
I admit I am quick to judge. I would think it developed as a hazard of my previous job, or as a shell of too many dumb/drunk conversations. I marooned myself to a lofty rung, and the view isn’t too bad from here. I am not entitled anything, and even less expected to reciprocate. This dome does sound like a self-fulfilling prophesy, but I sleep easy to it.
I sleep easier to this detachment than the circuits of your mind.
The concrete conversations with you make me question answers that I was contented with. You make me dizzy with choices and you make hovering between ideas–and not actually having to have an answer to everything–appealing. As unsettling as it may be, I’m grounded by the tennis game action of provoking and resounding. While you dislodged my faithless stance in people, you’ve also weighed my mind with your quips. Perhaps when we ever do lay the cards on the table, we’ll be the makeshift vanguard of judicious conversations and pseudo wins.
We need mimosas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then, we need more meals in a day for more excused crutches.