Tales From the Down Under: #14- Hounding

I deem that everybody is at least a monomania. Life will be lifeless if without a fixation. Some high-minded bigwig might dismiss fixation as the snag of the road to success, but they are too indifferent to calculate the impossibility without it. Those who are dogged about relinquishing fixations are the ones who sit in the pitch-dark. Sheer darkness they can only witness and hallucination comes imminently afterward. Sheer hallucination their mind ecstatically dwell upon, and monomaniacs they all somehow become.

A fixation offers an excusable explanation to hound after something. The real intrigue behind such pestering perseverance is the feeling devoid of extreme indignation or hatred. There are certainly frustrations encountered from time to time, but with a fixation one will never grind his teeth and bite it from sheer impulsion, because the larger the wound the longer one will take to heal it. Heal the wound so you can try to woo your fixation back, and once you fortunately hold the price it is unfortunately covered in bandages.

Anything you pay superb attention to you hound it. Even if you deemed yourself a veritable bore then it was the ultimate dreariness you hound. I came across a title as a "hound of love" and it whetted my curiosity for what "love" was being hounded after. The image surfaced instantly was not the one with a philanderer plunging into a sea of flesh women, but one standing before an abstract painting of his named "love," and as the viewers listen with awe, the painter showers them with esoteric gibberish.

Much contrary to the things you love, it is believed that you come up no explanations to the thing you hound. It is like the most forbidden hardcore which bristles with scenes like smacking and loving all in a flip of a coin. Differs from obsession, too, for which most people mistake. Obsession is your fickle lover- she wavers and vacillates. Amid the general incredulity you still boast of having your fickle lover.

Nabokov adopted Humbert-Humbert-esque voyeuristic quest of making butterflies his conquest. He succeeded by also interlace his writings with webs and webs of impressive intricacy. Reading his novels is like reading a butterfly's wing under the microscope. You are hounded once you find yourself staring at that wing for too long.

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Musings. Ex Libris

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