Reclining in an insane life

living in insanity
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Seems like it’s one of those days again. When the world reveals itself a little lighter, the mind winds down with an easiness very peculiar to it and there I stand, scribbling out such words and sentences of coherent incoherence that does not make sense even to my own self on other days when reality takes over most ardently. It happens often-a-times, this rant of the voice in the head that just won’t shut up and thankfully that it doesn’t- otherwise the emptiness of it all gets a bit too overbearing to live with. You see, how I am already ceasing to make sense? Or how deftly it is going out of control with a consistency that would rather have been coveted in more pragmatic explorations of life in its woes. But that’s the way with it- either you surrender yourself to these thoughts of improbability or let them weigh you down altogether- both of which are but only corollaries of each other.

So what does this particular time in realisation do I find myself dealing with? Precisely nothing, to be as frank as possible and yet with virtually every single thing that can concern the facades of existence, though in such ramblings of ambiguity that makes me wonder at times if I’m losing my sanity, or rather squandering any chance I had of regaining it. But life itself is insanity, as proclaimed by so many great names in the realm of philosophy, literature and the like, over the ages, each of them perhaps deciphering something eccentric about their own that led them to discover such profound truths of this entity that also is the reason we ultimately all are. Let me admit therefore then that in going crazy over life, as a tendency I can’t resist for the life of me, I sometimes drift away into this universe of tremendous self obsession that leaves me gloating about the expanse of my own mind that for once seems to possess the intense depths, possible to be reached only in the porings of the sagacious. But trust the harsh reality of this very life to jolt me out of such dwellings of my austere esteem and leave me wailing instead in the boundless sea of stupidity that is, you see, more my space and one, I submit to admission again, finds me most comfortable in.

life is insanity
Source: Zedge

This however isn’t what I had intended this monologue to be. On second thoughts though, it is as if my intentions would have exerted any influence on the compendium of useless thoughts that occur and recur in me to have allowed me the luxury to exert my power of choice. It is ironic you see, this life I live isn’t just one that I had not asked for but still have to be utterly responsible for what I make out of it, if ever I manage to, that it is to say. It also is as much unwarranting of taking into consideration what I would like my mind to indulge in when on a thinking spree, with personal preferences at work I would have likely drifted away to the realm of Smörgåsbord, though the inherent reference to Sweden is only an attempt to come across as deliberately sophisticated though my gluttonous being would have been as thrilled at mere ponderings of bread- butter, so as to say.

Returning however to what is expected, err demanded of me, it is my fate that sees my trail of thoughts concentrated on such musings, that are nowhere as ‘arousing’ as what my priorities would have led me to discover in all their tempting premise. According me therefore such insanity or as Edgar Allan Poe stated “insane, with long hours of horrible sanity”, this proclivity that life harbours of making one go crazy in what is but a perfectly alright mechanism of its working weighs down sometimes upon the mumblings of the soul. But didn’t I set out by how utterly unfazed this very disquieting mind of mine tugged at the strings of my peace, only to now argue for the right of its freedom? Is this insanity then ironically also one I’m leading myself into? I fear I am.

So what if one day stemming from such bouts of ridiculousness is a me who the world believes is completely insane, and therefore fit only to be tucked away into the confines of an asylum? Bundling up a being and all its trail of exasperating thoughts into a space from where there seldom is any return, even when that place isn’t death yet, should be a despairing proposition to consider, especially for someone startled even by the mere fleeting flounces of its own fancies. But it is not despair that grips me this time around, neither fear; in fact what I feel is a funnily eerie feeling of comfort that hails from such spectrum of existence that I reside in, in all my flinching fetishes. This times it’s a so relatable it’s almost phantomic draw from a presence, resonating in his every word the deepest reaches of my soul. Putting up the profound thought that Franz Kafka blurted out when he said “Don’t despair, not even over the fact that you don’t despair” as my proud saving grace, is a me who for once covets the acceptance she is able to garner, albeit in all her wayward leanings, at least as far as the mind is possibly granting allowance of.

So, does a ‘validation’ like this leaves one with no qualms about coming across as insane, that what is but an ironic romanticization of a state of mind otherwise so undesirous that you do not want to be associated with? Is the ‘easy’ routing of the mind on certain days too much of an aberration from the weighty perception of the worldly life that we should rather concern ourselves with? This perhaps might be too understated a question to elicit a response of a mere yes or no. And it isn’t easy either.

How can we be expected to even process a question that has nothing to do with the way we live our lives? Working, enjoying, partying, being busy to such extents that leaves us with ‘no time to stand and stare’, let alone equip ourselves with such faculties that can possibly extract out our innermost contemplations- if we have the time and the energy left for any- nor granting us enough freedom that lets us sonder over such musings without the fear that we would be left with even cluttered and crazy a mind that might lead us to doom, we are happy rather in dealing with the complexities of imaginary numbers, or exerting all our concentration in investing in bitcoins or share markets or devising such formulae and technique that would grant us the ability to explore the nebula of outer space, even as we shut down our own selves in ‘unnecessarily obsessing’ over the crazy callings of the mind. For the world is a beautiful place to be, and to cite John Milton this time around, the mind is but its own place you cannot even feign control over. Harbouring the power to drive us utterly, totally, completely insane, our minds exercise on us a constraint that ironically can be as liberating as it is restraining, coming across as encompassing of the very conflict that is the essence of life. Ultimately therefore, what has us meandering through the many ravages of the course of our being through life is this very insanity, perpetuating through perfectly rational schemes of thought, in sync with the many realities that persist and permeate the many layers of it, presenting to us a world of the human pursuits that possess the depths of flaneuring limits, winding down with such absolute revelations of truth through which the universe conspires to cook up many a stories, each unsettling enough to haul us all in the immenseness of insanity.


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