Lucid Interval

Oh fuck this blogging shite. The social networking. The pseudo-writing.
Screw the story of the metamorphosis of the Malabar MoL.
Fuck everything that has kept me distracted like a child in a classroom full of pixies.
T.E.L.E.V.I.S.I.O.N
Films.
Books.
Bought by the roadside; at seconds sale shops.
Read off the computer.
Film Society.
T.E.L.E.V.I.S.I.O.N.
Computer.
Inter-fucking-net; data-fucking-one.
Fests. Innumerable fests.
Caution be thrown to the wind, language be best rotten.
Fuck everything.
(T.E.L.E.V.I.S.I.O.N.)


My results are out. I got fucked. Like, literally.
69 and all. Only a lot less enjoyable. (Apparently)
They do not portray me in the best light.
They have brought a sob track along.
So, it is an unqualified AVM tragedy.
The rains lash like they were the product of the combined angers of Tlaloc-Chaac-Kon and other such funny sounding gods. The government quarters' windows respect the anger and loosen their hinges to perform symphony for perfect Bollywood setting of a thunder-and-lightning-very-very-frightening situation.
(Who said life was never without background music?)
(Wait, that was me)


But,
like it always happens,
tragedy in succession.

FM Radio. And an interview with Whizkid Senior. Distributing munificently to all those who cared to buy, The Virtues of Hard Work and The Joy Of Winning University Gold Medals. (And also, a practical lesson in How Not To Talk.)
So,
As It Happens (TM), my mother was one of the listeners. As was *sheepish* I. The W.S. reeled out his academic achievements (he had precious else) about the ranks, and the medals, and all those.
And the rest as i now know, is the stuff 60's Kannada cinema would be proud of.

Now, you see i cannot, cannot mug. Not even if i were on a sinking ship, and you know, the availability of a safety jacket or a lifeboat depended upon rattling off stuff.
Medicine, my chosen profession(!), is all about it. Well, mostly about it.
And my chosen explanation for calamitous results is the one cited above, in italics and bold italics, merely to reinforce the grade of incapability. And for effect. Sue me.
But,
It's one thing to say you are not interested in certain things you forced yourself into because 'the Devil pulled it' and that it was a moment of glorious loss of insight.
It's another to acknowledge to yourself and people who care for you that you are completely, pathologically incapable of it. Especially when they think otherwise.
Despite your lack of interest, when you begin to detect the faintest whiff of incapability is when the truth actually sinks in.
It's when you see the world around you falling apart, looking none too good.
It's when you know, all your best was in the past.
It's when you know, it's an Eternal Sunshine moment.
It *might* not come back to you.

To tell you the truth, i am actually a little bummed out.
Morbid i sound. Morbid i have gotten.
You know, they say there is a period in the mind state of psychiatric patients when they are actually normal and think clear. These states are called Lucid Intervals. May be, just may be, i am in one such. I have been mad enough all this while. May be this is my lucid interval. And i am thinking clear and prioritizing well.
May be all i want to be is a nerd.
Yes.
I want to be a nerd.



P.S.: I know i will regret writing this. I just know it.
P.P.S.: I might not write for long. Here's one more thing i suck at.