A Thought – On Life

Life is a framework of possibilities, with a bias towards making the impossible possible.

Life as instinct is unconcerned with/unaware of possibilities. It knows no doubt, no pause in the will to strike.

Like a little computer program to add 10 numbers, it does the addition flawlessly a million times over but cannot deviate from the aim to add 10 numbers. There is a mind for sure but it is an algorithm with a single purpose.

In man life as instinct morphs into life as mind. All the complexity, the variety, richness and ambiguity of mental man is only a glimpse into the mind of the Creator.

del.icio.us Tags: ,


  1. My Alter-EgoThe room was bare, and my footsteps made perfect impressions in the dust as I stepped in. What kind of a place was this? She told me she would be right behind. I was rather nonplussed at the dichotomy of it.Such a warm and inviting office, but who would’ve guessed that the counseling room would be like this? My psychoanalyst appeared rather uptight and formal as she walked into the room clutching a notepad to her chest. Was she trying to hold something back?I wondered if I had done the right thing by following the morning’s ad that had strangely jumped right at me from a jumble of little ad-boxes that were crammed in an obscure corner of my copy of the local Classifieds: ‘Delve in, and your problems will disperse, Explore freely, till the itch disappears’It gave the contact details for a ‘professional psychoanalyst’, and I thought I’d give it a try. After all, I needed help. Could she really help? I wondered. There was a white couch in the middle of the room. I knew it was for me and took my seat. BANG.The door closed, and she bolted it, top, middle and bottom. Oh-kay. Had I just stumbled into a closet-Dominatrix’s pad? I wondered. She didn’t look the type. It was pitch-dark. Her voice came ringing from the direction of the door. She asked me to lie down. I asked no questions.If she was the type that derived pleasure for intimidating her ‘clients’, I thought, she would be in for a shock. Suddenly there was a flash of white. A cone of white light illuminated my sofa, and for a moment I was blinded. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the harsh brightness.I could make out, by the sound of it, that she had drawn up a chair and taken a seat somewhere behind me. She started by talking about psychoanalysis, how it works, about the inner-mind, the subconscious, and things like that.The couch was very soft, and I had sunk right into it and was beginning to wonder if she was just a slightly eccentric psychoanalyst after all. Her cajoling voice put me out of my worries, and I listened to her with a slight sense of indulgent mocking.The poor woman thought she was telling me things I didn’t know. She asked me to begin exploring my inner-mind, and told me to be unrestrained. Very well, I thought. As much as I hate to admit it, I have a very serious and potentially psychopathic problem.For a few years now, my life has slowly, but surely, started to take on a dichotomous character, which seems to be pulling me apart from the inside. It’s definitely more of a psychogenic issue than anything else, I think, and the first step, logically, would be to tackle it from the mind’s perspective.I’m obsessed with thoughts that I shouldn’t have, and I don’t seem to have any control over my physical urges. Everything is fine in moderation, they say, but for me such a state just doesn’t seem to exist. I think I should analyze it by going back to the beginning,maybe then we should be able to come to some very plausible conclusions that could help deal with my problems better. They say that a lack of parental affection is the starting point for many irregular behavioral tendencies in life. I’ve seen many programs on Discovery Channel,and I’ve also read some books that say that lack of affection drives, or stimulates, such urges as I have, and I’ve come to realize that I do the things I do to release tension, or maybe to come to terms with depression in life. Okay, that’s one aspect.How about experiences that I’ve had growing up, that would have perhaps catalyzed my obsessive behavior or led to it, in part? Yes, when I was in school, some things happened that tinkered with the wiring in my head. In particular, those that had to do with sexual arousal,and women, in general. I had many teachers who were sly exhibitionists, who may have impacted, very significantly, the way I look at women. They would gambol around exposing cleavage through their sarees, for whatever reasons,which I need not fathom seeing as I have so many problems of my own. There was the physics teacher, the math teacher, the art teacher and the P.E teacher, all of them buxom, and willing to show it. I recollect that on so many occasions I couldn’t help but find myself staringunabashedly at the cleavage that popped out of a teacher’s blouse. Not a single day would transpire without some incident that made me feel like the hapless victim of a sinister plot to mess with my head, not to mention, with my physiology too.Those were the days in which the seed was sown, of a future rife in sexual longing, depravity, and gratification in various forms, fellatio, masochism, clandestineness and sin. It used to happen more with the art teacher than anyone else.She was definitely an exhibitionist, and I’m inclined to think that she derived a deep sense of carnal enjoyment when young boys like me would gape at her barely containable knockers as they bounced voluptuously in her blouse, charting ravenously deep cleavage,which had an almost hypnotic effect on me and made me do the wildest things. Every week I would wait for her double-class (I think it was on Thursday), when she pranced into class in a thin, translucent saree that accentuated her breasts so they were almost screaming for attention,and the first chance I had to get close to her, I would grab it, like an unconscionable lunatic, my actions always pre-empting my thoughts, asking them to just shut up and play along. Those were the dark days when the virginity of my thoughts was shattered, despoiled, changed forever.I’d talk to her about this and that, and how my art was coming along, and I think she knew too well that I didn’t really care about anything except casting furtive glances at her torso, but she played the game. She used to wear black bras, and their straps would stand out against hermild brown skin in a vivid contrast that paled everything else in comparison as they peeked scandalously out of her blouse. I remember particularly, this one class, when she had split all of us in twos to help each other finish their assignments, when I ended up(either by design or accidentally) being the odd one out. She came over to me, the harbinger of my philandering ways, and sat innocuously down with my stuff. We were sitting on the floor, away from the rest of the class,and I can distinctly remember that in a series of deft and nippy movements she moved my stuff out of the classroom and into the deserted corridor next to it, so that we were out of sight of my classmates, and I followed her like a sweetly gawking puppy.She was seated with her legs stretched slightly to one side, her poise, her redolence; the intensity of her presence fomented a strange tension in the air. The pallu of her saree slipped slightly off her shoulders. There was hardly any room between us,and the flowery fragrance she always wore emanated teasingly from her body, as I was gazing unfocusedly at some pieces that had to be cut from drawings I had made on a plywood sheet. Without a word she proceeded to work on them, her face down, strands of her long,straight hair falling over and grazing her chest, while her pallu was clinging to the edge of her shoulders with such incredible elegance that it gave off the impression of a perennial struggle, to adorn her body or abandon it.She was putting quite an effort into cutting the pieces as deftly as possible, so that her body, from the hips upward, was jerking in rhythm with the jarring sounds of wood being cut by those gentle hands, which seemed to have a phenomenally firm grip.There was a chain, a thin gold chain that was rocking back and forth, touching the skin on her neck at regular intervals as she worked away at the wood, incessantly. Her bosom was heaving profusely with the effort, her eyes riveted on the wood.As her breasts bounced up and down, her wildly animated cleavage was doing things t
    o me. It was a very real battle, a battle of the bulge. There’s a degree of wild excitement involved with the full knowledge of something pressing against your underwear,while the other person is sublimely unaware. My mind was drooling. She bent over further, she was trying to fix something together. I felt honored, unexpectedly. Holding my breath and hoping she didn’t hear the fervent thudding of my chest, I cautiously glimpsed at her areolas,and the part where her cleavage curved off over either breast. She was bouncing, bouncing; her breasts doing a veritable ballet in front of my face. I wanted to touch. The initiation was almost complete. The demigods of lust and sleaze were rejoicing. I wanted to squeeze.I could only dream of how soft they would be, and how squeezable. Around the time ‘squeezable’ was doing the rounds in my head, I felt stickiness. It was the first time I ever had an ejaculation. At the time, my schoolboy self was completely hypnotized.Possessed, as of a spell, and infested by some kind of darkness that multiplied my desires like a vile and potent virus. Even today when I close my eyes and care to reconstruct the scene in my mind, I am confronted with the surreal feeling that I had at the time,when I didn’t have any exact ideas about sex, but was just enchanted, really. I was totally consumed by her, the seductress of virgin minds who was gyrating intensely over that piece of wood, and stripping my conscience.How it all ended is a rather hazy detail in my head. I remember one of the boys coming out of class with a question on his face when he beheld the otherworldly ritual, and froze, petrified that my face had almost dispossessed itself from my body and was in her bosom.On hearing his voice she had started with a slight jolt, and our eyes met only for the slightest gap of time, before she turned away and got up. In that small instant she revealed to me longing, excitement, anticipation, desolation, curiosity and many other subtle things,which moved me very deeply. I’ve always been a thinker, and this experience has indelibly marked my thoughts, so that every time my mind wanders down the forbidden roads of lust and love, a little bit of the elixir of this experience flows into my being and I wonder, what powerful insanity it is, doc, this whole business of attraction. So that’s one of my ‘inner-experiences’, Miss psychoanalyst. The room was echoing with silence after my monotone narration. I turned around to look at her. My eyes cringed, making out her silhouette.She was not moving. I pricked my ears, and could barely make out a muffled whining, and repetitive, low, growling sounds. Slowly, I slid off the couch and headed toward her.

Leave a Reply