The Diaries#1

Today I found the old diaries that I used to maintain when at school and in the first year at college. It has been a long time, almost 4 years since I saw them last. Even I had forgotten a lot of what was in there, but as I read through them, I remember-old memories and impressions, vague now with time and other cares of the intervening period.

Also, I think, what do they read like? 4 years doesn’t give much of an age perspective but I have to wonder whether these are my original thoughts or just recycled crap-garbage imbibed in the meandering course of my education and random images that our lives throw at us everyday.

A lot of it was written merely as an ‘attitude’ thing, and the rest sounds too grandiose for a 19-20 year old person. It also makes me wonder as to how I could think up that kind of stuff. A lot of it very well written, hinting at the kind of clear, coherent thought of which I seem to have lost the capacity of late. Unless of course it is sermonizing about how to live our lives most of which is as obscure to me as it must sound to others.

It’s a rather garbled mess-my brain, like an overcrowded attic with an extremely random collection of thoughts and ideas thrown together pell-mell. And most of the thing I there can’t stand the company of most of the other things in there. It’s an effort to keep them all together-but it must be done to maintain the conceit of open-mindedness I pride myself upon.

It used to be a lot less cluttered back then. I was much less profligate with what I read, much less judicious-reading mostly the kind of stuff that you read once and forget quickly- Sidney Sheldons etc. No ideas to store, no thoughts to carry in my head. A lot of the entries are straight from the covers on ENIGMA cassettes.

But most of all I remember the condition all of the entries in those diaries these were written in. It’s a kind of daze, a numbness that I sometimes find myself afflicted with, as I find my afflicted with right now. It’s a little like being stoned, nothing is quite as sharp as it usually would be, the feelings are not quite as animated, the usual whirring inside my head is dulled to a steady throbbing-like all those disparate things in my head had decided to stop fighting each other and set me a joint petition to be let out immediately.

At times like these, it’s like I’m not in my body anymore-like one of those near death experiences we hear about. It’s like standing someplace else and looking down (well maybe not down exactly) on someone who thinks and looks the way I do. Vague impressions pass by, maybe phantasms of my own sub-conscious, or probably chips and fragments of all the conflicts I have chosen to stuff my head with. Not really my own, but not really not my own either.

And to think that after all the guff I have spouted about reason, consciousness etc. etc. blahblah on this blog, these diary entries comprise most of my creative work and they are done in one of these mystic dazes that I’m so totally going to trash in the next entry. It’s a contradiction-and there are no contradictions. Maybe I’m just expressing hidden feelings. Maybe I’m just some guy who doesn’t who doesn’t what the f*** he is talking about.