None of our own habits are really our own habits. I think we hardly know ourselves, everyday we find out a different segment of the house within us, built by someone else.
In the past few days I realised it is as easy to pick up the best in people as is easy to pickup the worst too, humans are selectives sponges. Absorbing only what caters to our needs. I am hardly honest with myself about myself. Often times I find the maintaining of a journal also futile because i find that I am unable to be fully wedded to the idea of honesty even in my personal diary. The relationship is already built on the foundation of cheating as you can find me writing here. As if writing on the web would be harder to discover for people than my neatly hidden journal. To ask myself who is it that judges me would be a foolish question because I possess the harsh awareness, that it is none other than myself.
Maybe I need to let go of this innate fear of being perceived. It is not judgement by the world that stops me. What is it? do I want to have a holier-than-thou image or am I just really such a person and suffering from borderline personality disorder trying to prove to myself that I may not be who i believe myself to be.
See? I am already finding out much about myself through this eccentric rambling at 11 am in the morning on Sunday, the 11th of this month (11th already!).
Why do I not have better things to do?
Things to do:
1. Read my to-be-read books...no wait, that really is not as important as 2. finish the reading for this week's course material. and 3. finish editing the magazine the first draft of which has been requested by this week, but 4. decide what i will be wearing to my cousin grandmother's death anniversary (not my cousin, my mother's cousin's mother) lunch is looming on me more heavily. It is such a morbidity feigning decision.
Isn't that strange? not my deciding how to dress, but throwing of a luncheon for a dead person? I wonder if someone will throw me a luncheon when I am no more. What will they eat? It is most unlikely that my mother will be aware of the dishes I enjoyed eating, although it is a grave thought to have for one's mother to be alive a year after their child's death anniversary. However, why should people eat what I used to enjoy eating, that too a year after my ashes turn to dust and earth? I suppose it is not the case when we are alive. Like Anne Frank said, the dead receive more flowers than the living because regret is more powerful than love. What a pitiful world we live in.
The list is not complete, and my thoughts have stagnated. I shall return with them next time.
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