Blending a dichotomy.

I have to clear my head. Too many kinds of information are bouncing about it my brain, creating a mess that could either spawn a brilliant novel or- more likely turn me into a rambling idiot.
I must separate them, mould them together, bring out that vein of sense, that sense which is the only way I can communicate with the world.
Talking to your muses are always poignant events, automatically coloured in a sepia filter, lying on your desk in a Polaroid snapshot. But you might not have time, to save those, because your body is churning with nightmares of child-soldiers, men and women who have seen the worst sides of humanity. And all this while, there is so much to read, so much to know, sometimes you wonder if you should write at all.
Looking at the mirror, trying to make the words leave my mouth, heavy words, communist, feminist, unsocial, misfit.

Sometimes, I get tired of seeing the world disagreeably. Tired of disliking, recoiling, playing, faking, wondering which face to put on. Sometimes I stare into nothing, and wish it’s something more than an argument.

My mind is at war, Pink Floyd against Chet Faker, classic literature against the dance of dragons.
One-time, my father had taken me to a science exhibition, long before I understood the so called basic science, and there were three steel panels in one of the stalls.
I was asked to put my hands on the panels at the extreme ends, and I stood on my tiptoes, did as I was asked.
Ice, and fire. One had froze, another burnt. Shocked, puzzled, I yanked my hands away. Then the instructor pressed the scalded and frosted hands on the central panel, and strangely enough- the frozen hand felt hot, the burnt hand felt cool.
My life feels that way, warring between heavy reality and my floatswam worth of wishful thinking, they refuse to blend, stare at me, laughing at me.
Confusing me, till I pass out in a blend of tender romance and brutal rape scenes.


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