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:
- Break a few ceramic plates and glass …. well, glasses.
- Scream aloud and do some hair pulling
- Decide that I don’t give a four-letter f-word
- Suddenly realize that I am still left with a few four-letter f-words to give
- Repeat steps 1 to 4
- 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
- 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
- Try my hand at poetry. Stop trying my hand at poetry. Try my hand at prose.
