Karakter

My civil communicating ability was temporarily shut down and I was left with groaning while listening to my old man on the other side of the line giving me instructions on what to do once I finished my errand. I suppose I was furious because he made me felt like a kid, and maybe because upon my return I would then be forced to act contrary to my normal behaviour and that would make me feel awkward or perhaps embarrassed even. This got exacerbated by the thought that it will be the pattern that I'll probably be following for the years to come, perhaps because that's how the world is in this part of the world (I can only attest for how it works in here, since I don't know much outside it). A game of interpersonal relationships, an age-old tradition. And maybe I was angry because I suddenly realized that I found myself couldn't agree more to what he was saying, but did in fact failed to realized that by myself and thus had to be "reminded" only now, I was, I suppose that was how I felt, humiliated, a miscalculation too great for my ego.

I've become quite complacent over the years, wielding my knowledge as a leverage control and got myself elevated to the high places. A lesson was placed upon me, and I didn't fancy much the taste of it. I've acquired the habit of holding myself in some pretty damn high esteem. Who am I after all? The profes love me for my thoughts and words, the colleagues and students love my for my professional knowledge (well, they always over-estimated me, all I've got is bluffing) and witty words, and I was foolish enough to fall for all that, and mostly importantly, to be conceited by myself and my vanity, I wanted myself to believe in what I made them think of what I was. I remember reading someone somewhere saying that it was like some kind of inferior complex... fuck, now I have a sodding complex! And I thought I was so sane!

***

I thought I was going to read Pamuk's The White Castle, but instead I am lying on my sister's sofa penning down these words on the notepad that I carry with me anywhere I go. I'm just about one third into the book, but I thought it was interesting so far. So after "talking" to my old man (it was he who was doing all the talking, I was responsible for the groaning-back part), I fetched it and thought I was going to read it, but in the end I chose to sit and write. Why am I writing anyway? What's so cool about it? Is it more interesting than the story of the Hoja and the young Italian scholar who became a slave? I often ask myself why do I write and why the things I choose to write about. Sometimes the answer it to improve my writing, but I know (at least I think I know, I'm a skeptical, you know) that I do it because I have to, I need it to clear my thoughts which are entangled a good deal of the time and free myself from the demons which are myself. Man needs and outlet, and so far writing is mine. Does that mean I'm a lonely person? Well, fuck, we're not so pathetic yet as to be needing it to tell us. We simply are lonely! But, is this a lonely man's prerogative? Will I stop doing it, I mean reflecting, should we one day wake up to find that we're no longer lonely?