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.