Saturday, August 24, 2013

She Thinks Not

Quite often in my life have I, like most emotional beings, felt the euphoria arising from discovery of one’s true soulmate. Subsequently, and almost as often, have I also been utterly crestfallen and forlorn, for reasons that are not difficult to fathom. I think I’ve finally found her. She thinks I’ve not.

This turmoil of emotions is not easy on the good ol’ blood-pumper. The good ol’ basket-of-grey-matter decides to take matters into its own hands (unintended pun alert). The good ol’ basket-of-grey-matter fails to apprehend the onslaught of depressant hormones and a general lack of blood supply from the good ol’ blood pumper. I give up on both of the good ol’ mates and decide to indulge myself with some imaginary violence.

A typical bout of imaginary violence has the same effect as this sequence of events:
  1. Break a few ceramic plates and glass …. well, glasses.
  2. Scream aloud and do some hair pulling
  3. Decide that I don’t give a four-letter f-word
  4. Suddenly realize that I am still left with a few four-letter f-words to give
  5. Repeat steps 1 to 4
  6. Decide to jump off from the fifth floor of a building. Realize that my twisted ankle (or sore joint …. you get the gist) would hurt severely moments before my ultimate demise. Decide to not jump off. Repeat steps 1 to 5
  7. Try to convince myself that true happiness lies within. Search for true happiness lurking in some deep corner within. Get acquainted with what truly lies within : forlornness. Exchange pleasantries and all. Leave the rendezvous after many awkward silent moments later. Feel more depressed. Repeat steps 1 to 5
  8. Try my hand at poetry. Stop trying my hand at poetry. Try my hand at prose.