*Imprudent*

(6:52pm) After an extensive period of absence, amounting to the greater part of a month, I have returned to the proverbial pen to continue 'keeping account' of the goings on of, at this stage, my petty and uninspiring life. My mind has been teeming with delectable little anecdotes to retell, saucy confessions (mostly in fancy and dream) and a whole panoply of experiences to reflect upon, which eerily ring (or chime, I couldn't decide) to the same note (or tune, also undecided) despite the variety of circumstances in which they happened to occur. It is disappointing, however, that I shan't be able to retell these self-promised utterances with anything of the same fervour, immediacy, or vividness, for their hour has past since I could afford them any clarity or truthfulness, and they are themselves now nothing more than ghostly recollections, as though from a former life. Furthermore, the laboriousness of my method, in which I painstakingly ponder over the particularity of the 'facts' of my existence leaves me utterly weary, and, post-weariness, I become somewhat obsessive - such that I am forced, out of a growing sense of duty and responsibility to myself, in the efforts of seeking some form of 'balance', to abandoned such a method in favour of a less rigorous, and possibly more philosophical approach, ultimately being less time consuming, and more succinct on the matter.

I have been waiting for some time now for the moment to descend upon me that I would feel the urge to write again. Visiting this website on several occasions with something of an estranged familiarity, I tried on occasion to take up the task and at least fill in some menial details, small excursions, chance meetings with old acquaintances, little epiphanies, etc. My sense of autobiographical duty received no approbation from either my imagination or my impulses, leaving me in a somewhat torpid state, at least spiritually, for although I felt a great deal through my experiences, recollections, reflections, and traveling philosophies, I had almost no inclination to record them in a meaningful manner, such that they have since vanished, evaporated with time, like the smoke which rises from the mingling of various substances upon a pyre.

I can say however, that not all has been at a loss, for while I have avoiding reliving my experiences through words, my countenance has improved remarkably because of it, and the absence from my obsessive and self-involving compulsions has only improved my reckoning, and allowed me a clarity that I would not normally have. It has only been a week now since I felt a welcome change precipitate over my nature, coming to me out of almost sheer coincidence that it seemed to be more the workings of a divine providence than having any tangible or causal relationship to the experiences which preceded it. It arrived shortly after I arrived back from my short stay in Brisbane, where I went to visit my friend Matthew. Whether it was the respite from the trappings of daily life, the company of cherished friends, or something inexplicable and altogether different, I returned refreshed and anew, restored to a former temperament, one which I have not recognized a part of me for several years. The delight at this feeling was akin to the joy one experiences after a friend, from whom one has experienced no former cause for disapproval, enters into one's life after a great period of absence.

Before this pleasant occurrence, my mind has been, for an inestimable time, clouded with the most dark and soulful of subjects, giving way to occult philosophies, merciless ultimatums, and all but the most destructive of cyclical thought processes. I contemplated only my sense of solitude, and my increasing sense of misanthropy, contrasting that from a life which I felt was already unattainable, and would forever escape outside of my grasp, like the recollection of a prophetic dream, until my mind became overwhelmed by the stupor of senility. These thoughts, ceaselessly recurring, weighed upon my brow, and how I still managed to carry or conduct myself in social situations and daily life I still am unable to answer. Let it be said that the frequency of these recurrences was as seldom as the severity of their seizure over my personage - and I was like one who, comatose and stirring feverishly, recalls those around him only in the vaguest of descriptions, and without any measure of time or goings on.

It was in this state of mind that I wished most fervently to write, still clutching onto the notion that there was some indiscernible, restorative power in writing that would allow me to balance all, and bring all to mind. I made notes for the matter and kept them, dormant, waiting for my mental contortion to grow tighter, and tighter, until it burst in an explosive and/or gloomy rage. The partial irony of this position is transparent to me now, but at the moment it seemed the only way to escape the continual and relentless barrage of thoughts which drummed at my ears and on my forehead. In a way, I wanted to honour this compulsion, as some kind of passionate drive, only later realizing that I was further motioning myself towards an inexorable doom. Thankfully I was saved from this intellectual suicide by my companions, who cajoled me towards a more practical and invariably more reasonable thought process. I'm sure it is unbeknownst to them their influence and profound effect upon me, but such is the nature of cherished advice, for the opportunity to express gratitude for such favours is lost in the benevolence of an unspoken gesture or smile.

Renewed, with both physical and mental vigour, my path lay before me. I suddenly experienced new joy in sensation, and new sensation in joy. I reacquainted myself with people whom I had, in a fit of self-loathing and spiteful misanthropy, cast from my life like fingernail clippings. I cherished the friendships I had not secured mutual affection for with actions, instead of words. I endeavored to find all courage within myself to keep my cynical and self-deprecating thoughts at bay, recognizing them immediately, and unfettering myself of their shackles. I inverted my self preservation through becoming increasingly asocial, into self preservation through returning the affections of those whose being was (or had become) necessary to my existence. My heart had opened into a stream, in which several tributaries in confluence, now gave succour and sustenance to my well-being.  

There are of course, occasional relapses. But my new Weltanschauung has adopted such an antithetical normative vision that I am certain that despite all these momentary relapses, the overall effect has, and will continue to be, positive. It is not with a compulsion out of sadness that I write, but a compulsion out of joy: the joy that intermingles with certainty - the certainty of the continuation of that joy. Such happiness needn't burst forth with artifice or find expression in excessive displays of affection or wild and drunken reverie. It is like a pulse that, gently throbbing, reminds oneself occasionally of the substance of their veins, which silently and secretly nourishes and replenishes them, not of the body, but of the soul.

I had other questions to ponder over, and many more things to address, but I prefer them to remain unto me on this occasion. I will continue with my plans for the evening, and will take my dinner now. Excuse my prose, I am rather deep in a gothic novel at the moment, and the formality of the prose has, at this present time, wholly consumed my speech. Till anon,

Pravin.