Rambling: The Nature of my Addictions

Here I am, staring at my notebook’s screen, with a deadline for a report breathing so closely down my neck that I can actually feel the moisture in the whiff, and absolutely devoid of any drive to finish it…and what do I do instead? I indulge in as many of my likes as I can…anything to take my mind off the impending fires of mount doom…I snap my notebook shut and go play pool…I re-read this funny book…and when I’m done with the book and am too weary to start another, I catch up on all the blogs I missed, all the delightfully funny comments that I could think up equally funny (or so I’d like to think…) repartees to but now cannot post because the moment has passed…and then I have this irresistible urge to write…something…anything…

So what better topic to yak about than what’s burning me up right now…the nature of my addictions which I plunge head-first into, to the exclusion of everything I am ‘supposed to do’, with a mad escapist glee…there seems to be no logical explanation to it…I know the consequences of missing the deadline…I know it’d cost me a sleepless night of painstaking effort to make up for lost time…and yet, this dumb streak in me says, ‘its just like those million other times when you pulled it off’…and every time I pull it off, I only give this dumb streak more ammo to lull me into my delusions of grandeur…

And then I realize that the addictions themselves have nothing to do with it…they’re drawing flak merely because they are the outward manifestation of my abject lack of drive…in fact, they’re not addictions at all…I can stop them and I have no withdrawal symptoms (at least not yet…)…I keep going back to them merely because my mind’s down on its knees begging me to do something that interests it…it yearns for that adrenaline rush…

Motivation is one elusive bastard…it has this sneaky way of sidling up and getting to you when you least expect it…might as well go so far as to call it happiness’s less-illustrious sibling…I’ve seen any number of my batch-mates with practically Dillon mini-guns up their butts…its almost as if they’re possessed…at times like these I wistfully long for those scattered moments in my life when I had a bullet up my butt too…but can never reconstruct them again…and so I trudge along on the road of my life, looking for that elusive muse, hoping for some gratuitous handout of serendipity…

PS:- Strictly to be consumed with a ton of salt…I know this phase will pass…its just that this has been a recurring theme of late, and I thought I’ll put it through the catharsis that is Writing (for me at least...)…pardon the rantings...:)

PPS:- also trying my hand at the stream-of-consciousness style of writing :)...at the risk of sounding immodest, i wrote it in one breath with very few changes...dunno if i captured it tho...comments hereon will be much appreciated :)...

PPPS:- A Dillon mini-gun is the fastest freakin' gun in the world...it fires 30-calibre shells @ 3000 rounds per minute...