I've been going over the recent tenor of my blogs. They've been a depressant, haven't they? Maybe I should remedy that.
I'm sipping from ichor; an old monk whispers into my ear, he's not really bothered about the Ferrari Robin Sharma made him sell. What he is bothered about, though, is that I enjoy myself.
Smooth, strong, amazing. There is truly nothing like rum.
Unless it's whiskey. Or sex. Either will do... but I digress.
Today was pretty much the same as any other. I had someone called Kancha Ilaiah over to talk on about caste and the Dalit Bahujan in India- biased as hell, but an enjoyable experience all the same. It was something else to see someone who actually cared-
No, scratch that. I do see people who actually care. The crazy thing is, I just remain in the background. Some defect in my genetics- I'm really unconcerned, apathetic. Perhaps its teenage skepticism. I hope so, or I've wasted valuable time trying to change the mould I broke. Nuts to that.
I've been reading up while the classes've been going on, though.
G.R.R. Martin's A Dance with Dragons. One hell of a good read, although some of the characters lack in depth as compared to the others- but Martin's really delayed this one, so I shan't complain and only thank whatever's out there while I read a pirated copy. The internet's so cool, no? It allows you to read up stuff that's not been released yet.
But for that matter, the Internet's also the cause of this generation's - mine and yours, reader- apathy. We know so much about what's going on, and whatever we don't, we google, because of which we have our opinions on just about everything.
I never really wanted an opinion- opinions only fill your stomach if you're a politician or some high-ranker- but I did want to have a nice little house tucked away somewhere, and a fridge full of rum/beer along with it.
A relative of mine had once told me about the Red Indians. Apparently, they had a legend of a white man who, famously, apparently, had gone into the deep woods with nothing but a skinning knife and a bag of salt.
Twenty years later, he returned to the tribe- much after everyone thought he was dead- and all he asked for was another bag of salt, before vanishing once more.
Sounds like Into the wild, doesn't it? Stuff like that does happen. As I am humbled, so should you be; there is always someone, somewhere, having a life we truly admire. Celebs don't have a life, so they don't count. No one would be truly happy with their life under constant scrutiny- and I know enough that while money drives the world, if you're stuck in a desert with a million rupees and a Guinness (I'm talking about the beer) then you'll go for the Irish. Life's fucked up like that.
People have often said I'm socially disconnected. I suppose it's true. I don't like company, I don't often like more than three or less good friends, and I hate crowds. Call it what you will. Everyone's damaged in some way or the other. My dream, as I've often mentioned, is to own a backwaters cottage and retire out of contact of everyone, leave no trace of myself behind. I've often thought about how it would be, to have the world forget you- and to forget about the world, and I've done that- it feels great.
Until then, I'll continue to blog, until the day comes and I can quietly vanish into my own wilderness in the future. Sayonara till the next.