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of anarchy

12/6/08


I have a healthy disdain towards organization, towards the inhuman mass of humans grinding towards a central goal, for in the act of massing of humans, it becomes less humane. I am an anarchist to the effect that complete freedom is accrued, and lying veils of false sense of protection are ripped and thrown away. Organizations, it seems, always tend to make anti human decisions. Earth is going to dogs, thanks to ultra efficient organizations. In search of growth, in a fear of tumble, we run incessantly gulping up wildly anything and everything, leaving behind a trail of a non-creative destruction. There is no logic to it if one stands out of it and looks at it through long enough a time frame.

In our day to day interactions, its uncomfortable for me to direct others and make assumptions on their part in ‘team work’, not because I am low in confidence, not at all, but I see it beneath human dignity and subjugation of others, and it goes against my belief of sharing equal position in the world. When I am in a position of leadership, I usually make it clear that I won’t lead per se, as in deciding for them or telling them tactics, what I would do is govern the central logic of the premise and be there for any eventuality since the responsibility is mine. But apart from that, I wouldn’t bully, push or ‘tell’ things. I would listen, I could reason, but I won’t deny that it’s a free world. So I prefer to work where there’s a free reign to do what one wants, but at the same time the people involved are responsible enough (and who are not free riders) to do what is asked of them and not misuse the freedom. But this is only day dreaming. Even I might slow down in such a situation. The organised way of working has created short islands of happiness out of accomplished deadlines. And when there are no deadlines, people feel inadequate and uncomfortable. Sorry shit.


There’s always a huge stoppage, a high wall of inertia that builds up in me unfailingly near completion of any and everything. I just don’t get it. Why? I might have talked of it earlier… I remember of writing about this a few years ago when knowing that I was going wrong, on a lathe machine, I botched up the object that I was machining on, and I discussed then of the destructive instinct within us. Is it the destructive instinct that doesn’t let me complete any task to its complete potential? I know of a few books that I haven’t completed reading, or some projects that I started and didn’t complete, or the huge inertia that I had to fight on any major assignment. Even my internship project isn’t complete. Thankfully, I can say that its version 1 and get away with it. (But the truth remains, even in its incompletion, the white paper that I wrote is all meat, no pfaff. If someone ventures into reading it, they would come out with a lot of insights into the subject matter. Unfortunately, its pfaff that they want... ) For most of the things that I write, I have no sense of climax and I usually end on a hunch or mostly when I am bored.

Of course this has to change. Since a few days I have been harboring an image of myself as a writer. I can’t be incompetently frivolous with my writing any more.

Also, what does this alludes to?

What am I afraid of? Completeness? A state of infallibility? or is it a premature surrender to the realization that nothing can be perfect, complete? But why?

Cowardice? Laziness? That looks more probable. Probably am simply too lazy to put an effort for completion after having got a glimpse of what lies in store thereafter. But this is applicable to only a certain things. This doesn’t explain my almost self destructive streaks. Of standing at the edge of completion and relish in the joy of decimation of my efforts; for how and what else will prepare the ground for future? Do I really enjoy destroying my efforts? I don’t know. I am extremely possessive of my creations. Extremely. But at moments, I can let it go just as easily, without remorse later on. It’s as if the checks and balances have been achieved and the chapter is closed. But these moments come arbitrarily, or so it seems. What might be the logic behind these moments? When I am free of notion of possession, the feeling of freedom at these moments is precious. It’s like standing atop a mountain, winds lifting you up, carrying the sweet smell of vegetation and soil to you. Greens and blues filling up the vision. Infinite. Bound in my vision. Utter control out of utter submission. This is born of the feeling of being part of the grand fabric of universe, an inconsequential part that wonders at the beauty and enormity of the universe, and at the same time a consequential part for it affects the rest, for it travels through all and is an irreplaceable component of the grand machinery. I am all. I am nothing.

Do I relish in my imperfectness? Does it feed into my need to be against status quo all the time? Is that facet of mine, the destructive manifestation of yin yang?

I feel it’s more due to my cowardice. But I can’t name this cowardice. Cowardice arising from what fear? In what direction? What am I afraid of?

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