Sunday, July 18, 2010


I’m sick somewhere in my soul, and the treatment I don’t know. I’m a dynamite, about to blow, but when I’ll explode even I don’t know. My every laughter even slightest smile, or even the grimace and teardrops try to express my mind, but poor they always fail in doing that. Hurricanes and tsunamis occur in my head, when I try to give it some rest. I wish to keep working all the time, as work is the only thing that rests my mind. I see faces when I face the clouds, and feel clouds covering every real face. I wish to wipe them out and let every face shine with clarity and purity of their mind. I’m a soul thirsty of some peace; a pinch of happiness will pacify my sufferings, I feel. Even my happiness bothers me, how can I dare to be happy when I’ve to do something…

Am I a worrier, loving purposeless battlefields, or a soldier protecting vague boundaries? Why I always feel incomplete, why every moment tells, ‘you’ve to do something’? What’s the thing that bites me always, why like others I can’t enjoy my presence? Why I always feel guilty of my unavailability to my loved ones, yet why can’t I devote myself to them? Am I a little thing hoping to alter the world or simply a mad person being grandiose or paranoid? I’ve tried to find answers to these questions, and still they mock me, standing before me like posers.

I think I should consult a psychiatrist for my uneasiness, but fear that I’ll think there, that most psychiatry treatments are still vague. Will those sedative drugs really calm me, or will that forced sleep convert my dreams into nightmares? Mind is the thing yet to be discovered, our knowledge of our thinking organ is yet obscure. Many minds get polluted, because of lack of care. Should we blame those unlucky creatures, for their cruel crimes? I truly loathe those brutal beasts, yet I see humans behind their dead faces. Can we heal those love deprived souls, alas; love isn’t a tablet that we can sell in stores, nor isn’t it a surgery… it’s a stimulus that alters mind’s synaptic structure, and where to find that angelic structure delivering this to them in sufficient strength is a poser. I search a magic stick to find the answer, and when I’ll find it, I think I’ll be able to pay off at least some part of the huge burden of the debt of unending love, I’ve received from my loved ones. And then my indisposition will reduce, at least to some extent.

For now, I’ve some little questions, and their answers: will I be a good scientist? I don’t know. Will I heal others? I really don’t know. Will I be a good person? I can try to be. Currently, am I a good person? And the answer is ‘certainly no’.

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