The Diaries#2

I’ve always been suspicious of generalizations and those who make them. Whenever I read through the stuff I’ve written over the past 5-6 years, I can’t but escape the conclusion that I ought to be terribly suspicious of myself. As a lot of people have told me-“No one thinks of the survival of the species when lying…”. Very correct, but not correct enough if I am correct.

I think it’s a social problem; a personality disorder I have about which I have managed to convince myself that it is a good thing through verbal grandstanding in front of an audience comprising myself. I certainly do talk enough to myself to have done that in a careless moment. I’m a misfit-always have been-and I have convinced myself that this is because my perspicuity allows myself to see so much more in the course of life which others do not and therefore do not understand. I’m a self-proclaimed crusader for removing hypocrisy fro our lives-and have built this almost alternate personality which doesn’t ordinarily allow me to see that I may not be fully equipped to handling real problems in a real life-hypocrisy of the first order.

It is only these formerly explained periods of dazedness that I see both the I’s separately, objectively and know both of them to be conceited, real me. Maybe its wrong to call these spells dazes. Maybe they are the only lucid intervals in an otherwise hallucinatory existence.

I can see the two selves clearly as I write this. One, totally tongue-tied I front of any audience larger than one, and that one himself. The other, full of himself and his ideas, loving the sound of his own voice too much. One, wanting nothing better than to crawl away somewhere and hide. The other claiming that this is an intellectual inclination and not a reluctance to face the world. One which must make jokes incessantly to hide that he doesn’t have anything to say. The other claiming that this isn’t insularity but rather ‘ the pleasure of being alive’. One which barely feels any emotion. The other hiding thefrigidity under the cloak of stoicism.

I think that’s why people find it difficult with me. They don’t know about the two me’s and can’t understand the mixture they see. They’d rather be friendly with me rather than be a friend, because they don’t know what they might end up befriending. That’s probably why so many artists have espoused drugs. It’s a wonderful thing-this state of oblivion. Though grass has never left a pleasant experience with me, fortunately I am able to get to this state without any external aid. Even now I can hear a small voice at the back of my head saying-“See,See! I know! I know my problem and am not ashamed to talk about it!”. Too proud, too proud. Is this self-glorification? I do not know.