Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Tales From the Down Under: #24- First Post After a Long While is Usually Not Very Impressive

One night I was waken by the noise of a couple bawling to each other outside on the corridor. Being galvanized up at such untimely moment, I resolved in switching the channels desultorily while the bawl heated on. Motions and images flipped through the screen like batches of vignettes. The ebb and flow of the noise outside kept with the fleet of the channel, thus a comical consequence was induced. It is funny how people are implicitly inclined to match their lives onto the screen, and into the screen however they result in. Some concierge, I presumed, settle the argument briskly and everything restored to its order like every yesterday.

People can be categorized into three: one with those who are always brimming with confidence and wielding their dominance wherever they go- they are the victors. Most people in general should be in the second one, who surface and sink just like every other but refusing to sail close to the wind, they secure themselves a perfect spot where they can witness every event flipping through their eyes just like channel switching. The terminology is irrefutably drab, too, I’ll call them the commoners. The rest should be lumped together in the victims, who are constantly creating follies in their lives and constantly being jeered at by the victors or the commoners.

What an unjust classification I sketched out! The purpose of the aforesaid is chiefly to demonstrate how those three groups of people all like to dramatize their lives, victors, commoners or victims notwithstanding. It is usually at the dinner table with your relatives when those three categories surface, and as the conversation drags on, every story that reels gradually blows out of its proportion. Silence is a poise to hold but painful as well when it excludes you from any of those categories.

“Why studying Literature.” Those three words screamed on the page and it was only prophetic they could appear on my coursebook. I slinked from providing a convincing answer when being badgered by such question. But now I know that the main reason lies in nothing but self-indulgence. I love reading, that is for certain, and stories as well. Stories, like stones, can be plucked from everywhere on every road. They are, however in reality, too painful for even words to document, hence my retreat to read stories that are fictional. The ugliest tend to be endearing when you know you share no ties with that story you read.

Not long after the noise ceased I fell asleep and dreamed. I dreamed I actually wrote me in Twin Peaks. Not an impressive character rather, which fits me perfectly because long ago I dreamed of becoming a better person but in vain. Not until that moment did I realize that mystery should be the period of every story.

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