I create reality.
I am always running away. I use various vehicles for my mind to be carried away. Into the unknown. Where in existence is a lesser challenge. Where life is less daunting a task. I run away from the loss that I have incurred in the so called process of living.
I am sometimes chased away from reality by a certain fear. A fear that warns to cease my existence lest I ran. It's an anxiety that gives me wild thoughts, fleeting thoughts that are too nascent to be captured. So with a heavy heart, in which I do not know what I carry, I run. Away.
The vehicles I was talking about. Sometimes I drug myself. A very tangible drug. That runs through my body and mind and incapacitates them from touching reality. However with time I feel the need to switch to a more legal form of intoxication. I try reading. I tell myself fiction could heal. I lose myself in the nuances of the characters. Sometimes that too runs out on me. I try being alone. Solitude, ironically could work for the strong willed. Because staying by yourself could help you accept what is, the reality. And acceptance heals.
Beyond all this self inflicted narcissism and random people telling me that they love reading me, I use writing as a therapy above all. Unfortunately, there are times when writing doesn't unload the mind either. I have been encircling the same idea for half a decade now that everything that I want to write down, feels passe. Passe to me. In that helplessness, I have not another way but to look at reality. The one I am trying to elude.
And try to doubt its existence. I try to doubt reality's existence. Ain't I creating this reality. That I live inside my mind.
I create reality. I have created my past, as it appears to me now, and as it has suited me to. I have bundled up unbearable memories in black boxes and thrown them into a hungry ocean. Sometimes like a message in the bottle when I am sent inklings of a hidden history, I am scared beyond repair. I have forgotten many many happy times, I have erased the significant as well as the insignificant.
I realize how my mind plays these games. I realize I create this present too.
What is reality. What is illusion. Was there a line between them ever. What is absolute and what is not.
And am I writing this. For real?
I am always running away. I use various vehicles for my mind to be carried away. Into the unknown. Where in existence is a lesser challenge. Where life is less daunting a task. I run away from the loss that I have incurred in the so called process of living.
I am sometimes chased away from reality by a certain fear. A fear that warns to cease my existence lest I ran. It's an anxiety that gives me wild thoughts, fleeting thoughts that are too nascent to be captured. So with a heavy heart, in which I do not know what I carry, I run. Away.
The vehicles I was talking about. Sometimes I drug myself. A very tangible drug. That runs through my body and mind and incapacitates them from touching reality. However with time I feel the need to switch to a more legal form of intoxication. I try reading. I tell myself fiction could heal. I lose myself in the nuances of the characters. Sometimes that too runs out on me. I try being alone. Solitude, ironically could work for the strong willed. Because staying by yourself could help you accept what is, the reality. And acceptance heals.
Beyond all this self inflicted narcissism and random people telling me that they love reading me, I use writing as a therapy above all. Unfortunately, there are times when writing doesn't unload the mind either. I have been encircling the same idea for half a decade now that everything that I want to write down, feels passe. Passe to me. In that helplessness, I have not another way but to look at reality. The one I am trying to elude.
And try to doubt its existence. I try to doubt reality's existence. Ain't I creating this reality. That I live inside my mind.
I create reality. I have created my past, as it appears to me now, and as it has suited me to. I have bundled up unbearable memories in black boxes and thrown them into a hungry ocean. Sometimes like a message in the bottle when I am sent inklings of a hidden history, I am scared beyond repair. I have forgotten many many happy times, I have erased the significant as well as the insignificant.
I realize how my mind plays these games. I realize I create this present too.
What is reality. What is illusion. Was there a line between them ever. What is absolute and what is not.
And am I writing this. For real?
5 comments:
I have not another way but to look at reality. The one I am trying to elude.
And try to doubt its existence. I try to doubt reality's existence. Ain't I creating this reality. That I live inside my mind. hmm...
u remb once i askd u this question abt Reality???
what reality?? everything there is, is relative... what is real and tangible to me might not be to you...
reality is a dream
S
Darl! :D Many many of my posts come out from what we talk!!
Rishi
Hmm.. I will get there, when I get as old as you :P
Chriz
Sigh! Looks like that!
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