I was just wondering sitting in the graphic novel class. We were doing the "work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction". I had just returned from a big brawl and very surprisingly could feign anger, loss and other stuff so easily that by the end of the act I was actually moved. I always knew I could act. Grin. Then, while we were all pondering on where art exactly is, whether in the object out there in the real world which is inaccesible to us, or in the process of seeing and perceiving it or when a finished piece of art is set out for infinite reading(reading means consumption) and the author is dead. In all this it simply struck me that what I had to say is completely logical and there is no reason why I should be hesitant or scared. But, I actually was. That apart, I was also thinking about the "realism in the idea of life". It is strange. We make grand plans, most of us nurture a particular dream about what we want to be at the end of all the activity in life. That is when the primary doctor, engineer, pilot thing starts. Later, it becomes more pragmatic as well as the hospital of underperformance. Negotiations and settling for the best available. Eventually by college, chuck the we, I speak for myself, though unfinished; choices are more limited, at least practically. And here I am, sitting in the luxury of another bunch of choices until next year. It is like everytime decisions just happen and the time in between is spent doing nothing definite which will result in the next decision. I never feel empowered in making a decision. And at this point I realise that (pardon the melodrama), life is actually walking past, uncontrollably and taking me along where I have not even thought of.
To put it simply, the more I live, the more it looks like a common anti-climax. I just sit there everyday hoping, dreaming, wishing and to a certain extent very assuredly saying to myself, "I am different and something unusual is gonna strike me any moment. Anything. A calamity, an award, a relation, a position. Anything." But somehow it never seems to happen. And then, I feel, maybe its too early to think so and the next moment I feel, maybe later I will just regret it.
Then, I also go to such ridiculous heights of thought where I desperately hope that some editor or publisher or Rhodes' descendant comes across my blog and takes interest in my writing. Then I will have a yellow mug with coffee, an olive green t-shirt, purple cushions, a huge window with rain lashing outside and I will be writing something that is gonna change my life.
Strange enough unconsciously I become something that a lot of people envy(here envy means a positive desire to possess) and that a lot of people fear, regret, detest etc. But, I never end up becoming what I ideally dream of since childhood.
