10^th of June, 2012.

03:27 AM.

Writing is a struggle against silence

Sleep eludes me. I lay in bed, tossing and turning. The mosquitoes in my room contribute to my insomnia in no small degree, and waking up at 11:00 in the morning doesn’t help either. But the primary reason is the maelstrom of thoughts inside my head right now.

Why is it that man can be the bravest of lions in the brightest of sunlight, but come nightfall, and he is reduced down to a shriveled child? I’m sure that for some the more nocturnally inclined amongst us, the inverse applies just as well. What man thinks in the depth of night is something he should not act upon. As (I think) someone said in a Tarantino movie, “Shit just real, bitch”. I blame the moon.

I’m sure halfway across the globe (and halfway across it is; across the globe lies Manhattan), Rafa is awake in his bed. Or perhaps he isn’t. Perhaps he, like Sachin or Vishwanathan Anand also drops down asleep. Or perhaps I should be thinking of Maria Sharapova in her bed, instead of Rafael Nadal in his.

I’m denied clarity of thought when it comes to my own self. Perhaps I should become a teacher. Fear is a great crippler – that, I know. The grass always seems greener – that, too, I know. The sense of achievement that I feel, that more often than not others attribute to me is all smoke and mirrors. But is mine to be the path of only struggle? What lies at the end of the tunnel? Or is it the tunnel that counts and not the end? If that is so, why should not the sole purpose of my endeavors be the betterment of the tunnel? What, indeed, is the purpose of my life? Incidentally, have I yet reached a state where the aim of life can be thought about? Again – shit just got real, bitch.

Procrastination is an eternal nemesis. There is something sickly comforting in its embrace. So much easier to log off and play DotA. So much easier to read Astrix.

And the mosquitoes, my ever-faithful companion, seeing the light of my laptop on are back to comfort me. So much so that I begin to wonder whether Jurrasic Park (the Speilberg one, not Sir Doyle’s) can be true. Perhaps a genetically reincarnated version of me – thanks to my winged buddies – will take over the world one day. Does this sound far too much like Sheldon Cooper?

I’m sure tonight Gurudev Tagore will be of no comfort – chiefly because I’m too lazy to get out of my bed and walk across the room to turn on my table light and get out my copy of Geetanajali. It is time for some stringent analysis. And searching for a tube of Odomos. And if that doesn’t work either, I’ll probably stay awake till 7:30 and sleep tomorrow afternoon.