Thursday, 13 March 2014

No-phone journal: Entry 3

Bothered by a scene that keeps playing again and again in my head, a scene involving hysterics and emotional outbursts and tears, like acting out a scene from "Notes from underground". Except that it won't happen. Because I'm not the underground man, and the guy's not Liza. Because such scenes only occur in literature, not in life. Because most of the time we keep things to ourselves and dress our souls instead of standing naked in front of each other. Because we give each other sugar, just sugar, so the brutal truths come to us in some other ways, and they become more brutal, and very often, devastating. 
It's strange how I often find my imagination poor and limited in some aspects, and see myself as lacking creativity, but in some aspects, such as this, I have such a wild imagination that it gallops like horses and goes out of control. Whenever something is uncertain, and of course things are always uncertain, and there can be more than 1 way of perceiving, more than 1 possibility, my imagination runs wild, thinks of various possibilities and more possibilities, complicates them, adds flesh, brings more details, turns them into vivid scenes as though they already happen, as though they're already real, then other scenes appear, and other scenes, equally vivid, all of them get mixed up in my head almost to the point of convincing me of their being real, my mood goes up and down and up and down whilst my logic gets confused and exhausted, that in the end my reason gives up and lets my emotions decide. And thus it's very likely that my emotions choose the most disastrous option available, unless reason steps in at the last minute. 
Since yesterday evening, as a break from Dostoyevsky's hysterics, I've been finding solace in Chekhov's 40 stories, in his humour, in his precise, concise style of storytelling. Who could expect him to be so hilarious (I'm such an ignoramus). Reading his stories gives me balance and returns me to normality, after hanging out with Dostoyevsky's overwrought, unstable character, as last time after meeting Raskolnikov, as far as I remember, I travelled to Macondo for a change. Not that I can't stand Dostoyevsky's world, instead, I'm more and more drawn to it, realising that I'm not strictly a Tolstoy person as previously thought. But I tend to be easily emotionally affected- each time sinking in his world, shaking, staring at havoc, I later need something completely different for a balance. Last time my reading Dostoyevsky coincided with a blow, for which I was responsible (though to be frank, there's no regret). This time it coincides with my trust crisis, as I had the most appropriate mindset to get immersed in it, and now have difficulty getting out. But I'll be fine, there's no need for exaggeration. Who knows what will happen. Que sera sera. And Chekhov's a good choice, at the moment his stories have the clarity, simplicity and objectivity I need. And hilarity.
Anyhow, I've gone through the 1st 24 hours without my phone. So far it's been fine. There were only 2 moments. The 1st was, as written already, when I got up in the morning and touched it. The 2nd was when I put my hand into my coat pocket, intending to show my mom some pictures in my phone to demonstrate a point about which we were talking as we were waiting for the bus, only to realise that my phone wasn't brought along. I should perhaps mention a 3rd moment, at the library, I thought about taking it out and looking through something, which I sometimes did in idleness. But it was all right. I had Chekhov, luckily. There was no uneasiness. 
It shouldn't be a big deal. After all, my phone's a mere stupidphone. My way of touching it now and then has become something like a compulsive act rather than anything meaningful, anything with a purpose. I don't even think it's always prompted by an expectation. 
Guess I should sleep now. 6.34pm. It's unbelievable, when I feel down I always feel like sleeping.

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