Just finished (left one story out halfway though) Milan Kundera’s Laughable Loves. There’s a sense of relief; not cos it’s over and done with but because I’ve read and thought. I know I don’t seem to make sense.
Sometimes I take a step back and look around. really look. I’m not sure how to react to what I see – with disdain? with pity? - All this for people who (by choice or unwittingly) don’t ponder. then at times, there'll be an envious glint in my eye, coupled with the yearning to be just like the others - unthinking and (possibly)contented.
as i read just now, i felt this contentment cos i successfully refused to entertain my (increasingly seldom) recurring feelings for andrew. i can rightly say that, at that moment, i was filled with unemotion. ok; so now i think feelings, not feel them? This makes me no less pitiful than those who follow mindlessly, doesn't it?
oh this un-quietus... will it never end?
(use the merriam-webster online link on the left for ref on quietus)
i'm nauseous with confusion. it's funny how i can confuse myself to such an extent with a monologue. like how i take a 3rd-person perspective and look at me and my relationship with andrew and i go oh, such a pity. it's a bittersweet world ain't it?. the more i do this, the more i begin to question who i really am - the outsider looking in or just a whirlpool of perplexity taking it in but never spitting out. it seems so familiar yet foreign - all the sentiment. i'm not sure what i'm trying to do. maybe i should just be hedonistic. Eduard and God made me reflect so much that i feel like a perfectly polished silver spoon. part of me rebukes despises kundera for having written(at all, but in particularEduard and God).
tell me how to induce drowsiness and in turn, sleep. cos i can't cure this, my insomnia. i've so much more to wonder and my mind refuses to give it a rest. i'm not protesting, though i admit i hate not being able to sleep. goodmorning. does good matter anymore?-its clarity tainted by corruption, melding with subversion.