Feb 3rd 2020

Life is a boring scum. I am wandering like a lost dream of words. I am sinking into the abyss of pathos. Mutiny is a million flowers scavenging a dead corpse. Feel tired and worn-out; feel like losing out the self to a rebellious resurrection. I want to peruse the meaning of life. I am feeling like losing my faith in God and I feel sorry as an empty canvas. Life has become a prison of routine. What had come of me? It’s been ages since I have a read a good book. I wonder why? I am the pillar of insomnia and depression. I wonder why I can’t end my life. Solitude, you infect me with fangs. Is writing a Moloch of dead dreams? I am depressed with nothing working favorably for me. Do dreams actualize life or are they merely wish fulfillment. May be in my previous birth I was a nomadic hunter who could sit around grandma’s fire pot and expurgate a story or two. Why does the avant garde decimate a good story or two? I am a mourning Kafka caught up in the riot of fin de siècle madness. My travel is limited to the four boundaries of a village. It is said that writers have to travel. I plant writer’s seeds with my pen. Even the iconic Joyce had a stint n Switzerland. I sink my lips into a cup of coffee as an art of rebellion. I love to wander, travel and write. I want to shatter the glass of memory and I want to relive the past as moments of happiness. Dark skies cloud my mind in epic sorrows. How does the prism of life actualize a quantum of experience? Cheer up there are better times ahead. I have to live in the castle of hope and make my dreams a wishing want of truth. Who does not want better money, space to travel, and enjoy life? Is Jesus the answer for all existence? Aren’t celebrity evangelists out to make a fast buck or two? Is life a hugger mugger of deception? Ideas in a novel are philosophical fictions. Is fiction the art of telling the self through a series of revelation? Is fiction the art of lying of the self? Do morals have place in the fiction of life? Myth is the solidarity of living through a series of fictional extracts. Every day I speak to myself to become a better fiction. I laugh all of myself in philosophical hyperboles. The body is a festoon of desires. Why can’t I be free and liberated? What causes me to doubt my desires? Are desires evil? They aren’t as long as they don’t offend a democracy. Passions are the mantras of poetry. Socrates said: ‘know thy self’ and I say ‘live yourself’. Words are to bear the dictum of truth. A good writer is in the art of making.

Jan 15th 2019

Nothing much has happened in my life. This day to day routine is trying and troublesome. I think of content to write but nothing much emerges.
I had a strange dream and in it I was going through a tunnel. I looked up at the dream dictionary and found the meaning as, going through a tunnel means solving a problem and beginning a new phase of life. I am excited at the prospects that the dream has to offer.

I wonder where life is taking me to. I dream of visiting enchanted islands like Bali, the Philippines where my significant other lives. I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having Indonesian grilled fish and duck roast and rice with Sambal.

I nourish writing as a poetic dream. I draw writing with my pen and brush against the canvas of the paper. Form is the evolution of the ego into an aesthetic symbolism of an idealism. Content is what the pen plants as a seed and writing is an evolution of a fruit. Style of writing is a fictional utopia. Meaning is the recognition of the allegory in aesthetic semblances. I carve beautiful sculptures with my pen. Writing is the joyful exertion of freedom. The joy of writing is the liberation of the ego, the joyssance of the body. The text is the manna of celebration. Nietzsche the philosopher said: ‘a good writer is a one who is ashamed of the self’. We write in words about what is a bodily negation. Writing bears the angst of the self. Writing is the art of being a stoic epicurean and a philosophical Socrates. To write as Derrida has said: ‘is to have the passion of origin’.

Dec 21st 2019

I woke up early at 6 AM. I had a strange dream and it I was a wild life conservationist and I come to India to save the life of black bears. One interpretation is a bear signifies power and independence. Another meaning is since the bear being wild it denotes aggressive and untamed character of the person. The third meaning is winning in a gamble like a lottery. I hope this time I succeed. Another meaning is help is coming on the way.

Dec 11th 2019

It’s been quite a while since I have written and posted my journal. Today I want to narrate a significant dream that I had. In the dream, I am trying to escape from my father and he sends thugs to catch me and they finally get a rope on me. Is it a problem of my conscious self—the ego, trying to adjust with authorities in the outer world. I don’t know. I really don’t know why my dead father wants to chase me. Is my dead father a God in disguise? Why I can’t I choose the life I want to live. Yes, I have only one life and I want to live it to the fullest. Being with Christ is a paradox—you are free and you are bound. Is Christ the- paradox, the authority figure wanting to subdue my life’s desires? I don’t know.
I dream of travelling to Bali an exotic island in Indonesia and also to the Philippines. I don’t have moolah to accomplish my heart’s desire. I want to travel, make love to the many women in my life and write all about my experiences. I have the culture of an aesthete. Life should be an experience of art. May the soul be a grandeur of experience. May the soul become with cathartic experiences I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having grilled fish and duck roast of Indonesia. My heart and soul lives with the islands of Indonesia and the Philippines.

Nov 28 2019

Nothing much happened to me. Life went on like a boring breeze. My sleep has become better and I have cut down on cigarettes. I listened to a Facebook video by Joyce Carol Oates on the art of writing. Though very short, it was very interesting. A writer has to think and feel all the unsaid—the inner consciousness of the mind. A writer’s consciousness is very special. A writer is a person who is very sensitive. When overcome with feeling, when in the emotional cauldron of the mind, the first steps of planting the writing begins.
I had a strange dream. In it I was having intercourse with my wife. It’s not something to wonder about as my sex life is rather starved. Yes Freud is right; dreams are wish-fulfillment of desires.