Lately, I have been wondering if emotions mean anything. This comes in after sensing the need for others around me wanting to know so much about themselves... Why?
Are we so interesting that we need to ponder so much about ourselves to an extent that we care less for quintessentials around us? So much of self importance required?!
Recently I have been upto some pygmallion- endeavours. However, the result always foreseen, the mind games I wish not to play, the muses I try to keep-all bubbles. The trouble with the mind is that it keeps me facinated to watch the need for people to facinate others by moving inwards or outward, taking rejections, contemplations and wishes to a fine display at all unconsious levels, revealing more than they wish to hide.
Yesterday, strangely, an introvert-masochistic Professor, came out of his shell to ask me if I could lend him some of the books on Psychiatry and Psychology, in a miserable attempt to help him understand the minds of others. Told him that he was too juvenile to read the stuff lying on my table and hence as all mortals do, he proceeds to my reading table to get a glimpse of what I was reading. As expected, he did not fare too well. he said that Horney and Gottman were too confusing and that Freud did not make any sense. The moment someone tells me that Freud does not make sense, it hits me and I wonder questioning the facade of intellectual poverty of such creatures and wish deep from my heart that those sucklings need to go through a rhythymic abandon like a stray bitch and wish that the suffering they are undergoing be aggravated with more fleece up their a%^$e. May be this fellow being a masochist, will sit there to enjoy it. So rather than give him the pleasure of my discontent, I chose to withdraw into the night sans food and soon, a couple of friends, we rode the bikes into the darkness at midnight-for no reason. It was good. Proximity another question that was dwelling in my mind was also sedimenting with the ditches around the corner posing more of an excitement than threat. However, life sans guilt is better than life sans sins.
Bottomline: Reading does not enlighten you... rather it is the enlightenment that makes you read.