The Complexity Of An Individual

In the hours after dinner, he had three things to choose from:watching, reading his newly acquired book and sleeping. Watching had become so distasteful. It was the same thing over and over. Sleep was something he considered normal and he was little interested in things normal. He picked his book and poured his affection on the page he had folded. As he picked the tempo, the book transformed him from a human to a mere statue, his eyes were fixated and he only noded sagely and partially showed interest in whoever talked to him. Somewhere in the book he transited from a reader to a character. And thoughts mirrored in the glasses of his brain, lighting his inner senses sparking a flow of ideas like a network of spies. And in an unceasing procession glided through his internal complex channels and to his mouth. He realised that he was laughing to himself as though, at some good joke. A bloody funny one he thought , funny enough for a punch. And asked himself what he had to laugh at. Surprised he didn’t actually have an answer to his own question , he thought he was too good for the writer. Reading was the only thing on his list he could possibly take seriously. He hesitated, placed the book on his lap and stretched his hands flailing. He did nothing by half measures and now he wondered if the writer had figured that someone of his statue existed. He felt a little contemptuous and with a smirk on his face, he slightly chuckled. There was a large gap of satisfaction. Everything he ever did, embraced a great deal of skill, efficiency and greatly bordered on genius;he wondered why someone would be so proud in negative excellence as to display.  

He was already thinking too much on a matter he had neither control nor the intention to change. He was under the impression that he needed more and he feared the possibility that it had turned into an obsession. And that sent sufficient chill making him question the way he was thinking. Nothing but that alone appeared to stink worse than anything he could imagine. And he could feel the choke and the apprehension became strong and unstinting. “No one can tell that which I’m thinking, but I’m actually thinking and it’s making me nervous,” he thought. He placed his left hand on his chest, his heart was beating strong and fast. Was it fear or was it the silence that had projected his heart beat. If it was fear, what was he afraid of? He brushed his thumb down his cheek, slightly touching the corner of his mouth. Not that he had firsthand information of what he was wary about. He too was in the dark, basically he hungered for an insight. Either way he was a rare person. His greatest asset was silence and there were times he wavered off course, but he understood that ignorance is bliss. His only liability was instability and it drove him crazy that he possessed not the ability to control it. And many times he wondered whether it was part of his DNA or whether it was just something on the surface, a taint possibly. And for that, he believed himself shuffling between madness, near madness and complete madness. What he wasn’t sure was when he was in what specific state and what prompted each. And that he attributed to his father’s clumsiness. He also believed in the principle, “Madness is not permanent,” so he knew that even though he was a product of crazy individuals mixed admirably there were at least moments he was normal. Those were the times he tried doing the right thing and ended up tip deep in shit. So there was that bit of information that he sucked at trying. And deep down he felt as though it was some gigantic hammer, that tied him to the ground snatching his breath and strength. From his chair, he reluctantly craned his neck to check the clock. Little ever occurred to him, how time was actually flying. And in the context of time he fancied sleeping with an indecently large appetite. Something he felt a little uncomfortable with, but mixed with the eximement that it would at least dimmish or rather mitigate other circumstances. 

It was now only a few days until the time was due. It had happened once or maybe twice before. But at that time he had little to do with decision making. Now that he was managing transition, he felt somewhat comfortable about whatever it was that was coming. And it wasn’t like he was jumping at an opportunity which had presented itself. In fact there was a lingering thought that he would be leaving something behind. It was as though leaving was going to set a bad precedent. But there was his past that hovered, a past that he was too fond of to relinquish. And he wasn’t willing to be held back in terms of decision making again, but the uncertainty of what he wanted left him desperate, a little confused which was not exactly a good thing. There was that longing and hunger for knowledge, experience and understanding of life and yes he had learnt a great deal. Yet if he looked closely, it was worth noting that there was not just one place he could learn and that there was still a lot to learn. There was a time he was as pitiable a soul one would ever meet, an addict with no sense of direction and knew little to do with his own life. You see sometimes, people may step beyond this world into places of fierce storm. Places in which nothing else exists but constant rumble and tumble. He was a little lost, but as study shows, intelligence does not preclude people from taking drugs and intelligent people are more likely to use illegal drugs . In fact the connection between higher intelligence and poor decision-making is not anything new, for intelligent people are in the habit of applying abstract, logical reasoning to situations where such line of thinking may not actually be really helpful. But he looked sober and the fact that he was an addict was something that knowing would mean he said it himself. Indeed there was one person he shared. The only person he could talk to, the one person he could truly relate. The person he could tell his inner thoughts, his deeper imaginings and feel closer to understanding whatever it is he really felt. Something he found, strangely influencing his actions and thoughts in ways unimaginable to him. Clearly a lot had changed in the circle he found himself existing. He was born weird and there were times when he couldn’t differentiate what’s weirder; him or the fact that he was just weird. But whatever was happening barely fit his descriptions of what he understood as weird. There were times he felt they drew closer or further from each other depending on circumstances, notwithstanding, he appreciated she was an important part of his life. In many ways she helped him see the beauty in everything. The knowledge of her existence alone muted the power of his storms. He could still feel maybe but in a distant. And there were moments he felt like just hugging her, the biggest, but as a friend he knew that would be rush decision on his side. And perhaps she was his only friend. He thought of thousands and many steps and misteps and chances and coincidences that brought him where he was and he wasn’t willing to jeopardise any luck he may have scooped in knowing her. Having a friend might be a luxury or maybe a decision but it’s more than that, it’s friends who keep us from spinning off the edge. He understood how easy it is for things to change, how easy it is to start off down the same road one always take and wind up somewhere impossible to get back from. He knew that just one false step, a hasty move, one pause, one detour, and you end up with new and more overwhelming and complicated situation than before or just a bad reputation or a body in a resuscitation ward. It had occurred to him before that all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand and plus other moments layered underneath it that look totally different. 

The water doesn’t lie still, but the water still lies. William Reade, has it right. ” We live between two worlds; we soar in the atmosphere we creep upon the soil; we have the aspirations of creators and the propensities of quadrupeds. And the explanation would be, we are passing from the animal into a higher form, and the drama of this planet is in its second act.” He adds, that as a single atom man is an enigma: as a whole he is a mathematical problem. As an individual he is a free agent, as a species the offspring of necessity. It was 3:30 in the morning and his eyes were still blinking in the dark. Indeed there was his real self and a reflection of himself and not even himself had a way of telling which one he was at any given time. Knowing the personality of a person, the sense of self, how he would love to be remembered or seen isn’t the easiest of puzzles in fact it may never be solved for some. In attempts to remind himself of which was his real self and which was the reflection: not entirely unusual for exploration is better before picking, he was bound to continue seeing in the dark. Indeed we are complicated people leaving in a complicated world.

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