BrainSurged

I remember the first post on this blog. I was high on steroids and bubbling with Joie de vivre after a simple corrective surgery after years of wondering. Then the posts turned dark as my thoughts went darker, and that reflected in my every day. This time around, I'm struggling not to look for darkness everywhere. I am afraid to hope, to have an optimistic prognosis when something positive happens. Perspective is still required.  "Perspective still required!" Anybody who's ever stepped foot in a gym; is self-aware and/or not a narcissist, like me, can attest to the feeling of insufficiency I describe. In Neuro-rehab for the whole month, I see both terribly hurt and recovering patients and disgustingly fit people. As I sit panting after fifteen or so minutes of biking, I see my instructor lifting weights. The muscles I had no idea exist in a human body on his body make me avoid his half of the gym. In my peripheral vision, I immediately recognize other never-me-level f...

Nope, not another article about any idiot Trump . It's all about me, as usual. In that way, I'm indeed like Trump. At least in my blog. Me and my feelings and my thoughts and my blog- it's all I seem to write about. In the past silent while, my shunt has been its mercurial self, and hence, I haven't been myself. Ideas galore, fatigue, and bone-weary from the ineptitude that I think I show. Also, I constantly ask myself what difference my writing or painting or singing or reading or coding or parenting or my life itself- makes. If I am to be Hemingway, I'd already been one, won't I? In my rational moments I know it's not for others that I write, but my self. In my other moments that seems selfish. On the other hand, without serving my purposes, am I some other kind of unnatural being that is completely altruistic? Not even plants are that. Surely, not my kind of living thing called humankind. So there! My brain not-withstanding, I am a writer and I shall writ...

When I started blogging just about three months ago, I  intended it to be a form of therapy, a solitary odyssey of understanding myself. I most definitely didn't expect the rest of the world to join my quarantine and obsessively self-reflect all over the internet. As with every other activity, I wanted this period to be mine and mine alone. Oh, well! Ironically, my view of humanity is infinitely more positive, while under house arrest. If this goes on, I will soon be a Humanitarian and be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, like Aung San Suu Ki. (And taken back soon after, like hers deservedly should be!) ...that trajectory probably would be to someplace beautiful. And that makes all the difference! I had lived most of my mature years expecting normal behavior from myself and failing, and flogging myself for failing to meet my baseline for "normal". Normal is synonymous with Average in my mind, and Average is the minimum acceptable. So, now I wonder why would I expect myse...

The rousing words on Twitter, Quora and other useless social places for the unsociable and/or quarantined, spurred me into action. Made a brain-damage friendly to-do list app, for personal use, obviously. It looks absolutely unremarkable thus far, and will be updated on GitHub if it ever gets remarkable. In the meantime, what to do about the At-home monsters? In all the articles about the age of social distancing/Covid-19, nobody is complaining about too much socializing. I used to have a minimum of eight hours alone every single day and today is the day 14 of my socializing with three people, minimum, every day. That's three too many! Fun fact: Viricide is the act of killing a virus- also the word for killing one's husband! Ha! I was looking for the word for the latter. I'm not entirely sure this is a real definition or other wives' wishful addition to the English language. Covid-19 doesn't pose that much immediate threat, by comparison. My descriptive idiom is s...

I discovered the purpose of this blog. I am not writing to any audience. I am not even addressing any change. I believe something, yet nothing I believe is changing anything in me. It is my truth of the moment that I am elucidating. To what purpose? I didn't know until recently. I am voicing the thoughts of one of my personalities. One of my characters of one of my first books. Sometime down the years, I shall read this post again and realize this to be a turning point in my life. Or perhaps smile at my bombastic pronouncements. But, why not? If we can't even dream flamboyantly, what good is all this excess? I am not a romantic like Rousseau. Rousseau himself admired Voltaire who critiqued his Julie, as "silly, philistine, shameless and boring". Most popular literature, social media and indeed culture itself today, is "silly, mindless, shameless and boring". Voltaire, Sartre and Nietzsche mostly make sense to me. Classical music makes sense. Some m...