Our secret little anachronistic problem

I am emotional, very. And, quite not trendy at being so. In French, 'vague' /(vaah-g)/ means wave, it suits the sentiment of waves better. There are times when I excessively day-dream, drifting from one thought to another and switching back and forth. In these moments, the agenda is set, think about death of near and dear ones, move on to fantasiing about the lost forgotten fancies, switch to evoking more sensitive thoughts about people dying in freak accidents everyday, flip to ice melting, global warming, then suddenly I picture myself in a film (mostly a political one, more often than not in 'Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi') and start wondering how it would be to give speeches on stages, then cut to making love underneath a long library table on a hot summer afternoon. Finally, the Facebook page fills my thoughts, of comings of people, of travels, of photos, updates, I start comparing my life to those of the others in the same times as mine. The synchronic Saussurean study of comparative success of people like me in different situations just to be reminded that comparisons are odious. This reminds me I didn't finish the Matsuo Buson book, which reminds me that every time I read minimalist poetry, it beats me how concisely images strike to people. This can of course, only lead to reminding me that I may never paint like Degas or Monet, though their strokes look so simple and technically achievable. That calls for an empathizing with the other million or less who grieve for want of talent like me. Then, I start thinking about the girl who so strongly overcame her father's death and lo, I know not whether to run tree to tree with a flag or crawl in grime as symbolic of talent dearth. Very old-fashioned, slightly far-fetched.