So I thought, why not? I'll do some more typing (it does hurt the fingers by the way) and try to relax. But on the other hand, its quite un-relaxing. When you've got nothing to write but still want to write, you have to apply a lot of pressure on the much ill-used brain. I'm precisely doing that at the moment. But these grey cells of mine which have been in the dormant state for a long time, seem to prefer that state and rebel against any stimulation.
My friend says that this is like writing an essay. But I disagree. In an essay, you know what to write abot and know in which channels to think in. This concentrates the thinking process and in the end you have to eventally get a result and you end up writing something because you've thought of something (or for the fear of losing marks). But writing something with a title as vague as the one I've given it, its very brain straining.
Some people might be wondering that why am I not writing an essay if I'm more comfortable with them. But I say that the literary skills that I possess are not to be wasted on writing horrible essays. In the prose collections I had to read and learn (read mug) in school, I always used to detest the essays and used to curse the writers fluently and wonder why do they write such things. I have a feeling that the writers of those essays specially bribed our textbook-setters to include their essays in our text-books so that we can be forced to read them and then they can happily brag while drinking in some cheap pub that so mjany children have read their respective works.
Now talking about drinking and bragging in some cheap pub, I don't drink in a pub so that's out of question. But what is questionable is the time I spend in writing such worthless pieces of crap that is not even worth reading (I'm glad you even reached till here), so why do I write such stuff? You see, its just to satisfy my sadistic pleasure of knowing that I've wasted some other people's oh-so-precious time by forcing them to go throgh this and given them great mental agony. Now you may ask, that I've wasted my time too and must be in a mental agony too. I agree. But did I tell you that I'm a masochist also?
Talking about masochists, do you like to inflict pain on yourself? Personally I prefer sadism. I mean the pleasure of watching pain be inflicted on others is really satisfying. Its too bad I won't be able to watch your faces as you go through this piece of (f)art, but I hope that my imagination won't boggle.
Talking about boggling imaginations, it quite happens when you're brain-dead (which I hope none of you are). Actually, I don't know what does brain-dead actually mean? I mean, isn't the brain dead when you die too? So why don't we call it simply dead? Or does it mean that the bodies continue to live (zombies!) and function without a brain? But what I think is that brain-dead is the term given to those brains which finally choke, spltter and die after being kept inside liquid biological preservative liquids on the various tables in a biological lab.
Talking about brains, have you ever touched a brain? It feels sort of gooey. But its very soft and nice. I never came close to smell it so I can't tell you about its aroma. Its odd how can a one-and-a-half-kilos weighing little mindless jangle of cells can run your whole body and thought. Isn't it scary to know that what
you think and learn and see and hear and taste and smell and remember is actually done in a little grey object? But if you learn using your brain, why do they call it "learning by heart"? And even when you sleep, the mind doesn't stop working but continues its processes to give you dreams (and/or nightmares). Working continuously without much rest for 70-80 odd years it is quite an efficient machine.
And talking about sleeping, if you aren't already snoring by your monitors, I think I'll end the torture right now.