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Saturday, March 19, 2005
I hate it when I make an arse of myself.I hate it even more when history makes an arse of me.But I hate it the most when I let history make an arse of me. If you're wondering how Ryan is, well, let's just say I hurt him bad (by my standards). He ain't good as new, he's all filthy and needs a bath but I'm too lazy to give him one, and he's scarred for life, very aptly put Daphne, well done. We just don't learn, do we.My back and arms are aching, but I'm loving it. What's with this masochistic streak in us which pushes us to our breaking point only to go 'ahh that feels good'? Physically speaking, it's a good thing, somewhat. But emotionally speaking, it's a quest for self-dessication. Psychologically speaking, it's the defence mechanism in us that builds up this wall behind which we stand, and throw our bodies against ceaselessly, only to end up all battered and sore, but only to couple it off with an effortless 'I tried.'It's funny trying to figure out what makes us do what we do. The face of confidence can easily be a mask for insecurity and fear. That stronghold of pumping sinews and muscles could actually be the mould behind which a scared little boy hides his feelings. And the cool ice maiden could actually be dying to share her life but is too frightened to allow someone in.Which is why the absurd is a rule we should live by. No reasons, no motives, no hidden secrets.Just actions which arise out-of-the blue, simple mind-messing, and seemingly pointless games with no deeper meaning. Or is there?
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