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Me and my talking self

(What we say is far less than what we have in our minds. Our mind or brain acts as a sieve to separate what is in our minds and what we ought to be saying out in the public. But for instance if our mind fails to sieve our thoughts, I wonder how we would be. The following is an excerpt from the collection of such random and raw thoughts.)

Now that’s what I call a ‘gentleman’. You know, you sometimes look like an old American president. No, no, not exactly him, but somewhere in between the lines, you miss a few things. How many times do I have to tell you I hate to sleep on the couch? Now do you see the bird up in the sky? Yes that one! I like that! Because I can’t see in the darkness and some people go on making fires in my little warm and cozy fireplace.

Oh, yeah, do you remember that man who wore a thick woolen hat on one summer day? I loved it anyway. I hate my vest; it is too white when it is really white. White people are yellowy, hairy, crazy people. No, no, they are good fellows ... of which you now owe me six hundred ngultrum and twenty-five chetrum exactly. I want it very soon. So, you bought a new umbrella, I hate chilies especially on hot holidays and I rather prefer to lie down in the ditches by the road that never stops.

These days rivers are swollen with fries and I like to peep through the holes on the walls at our next door neighbor.  Look at my mother, just turned fifteen last November. Well, I hated him. She said he was a useless man and he hated us. No, he hated me and yes, he was the one who bought an old chair from the street vendors. Now it is no more there. Yeah, fish curry is good and your meat tastes like hot burning charcoal. Ancient kings as you know, used charcoal to punish those criminals. Criminals are actually good men with good heart... sometimes they like to get wild that’s all. They’re wisest men on the planet. I was also once criminal, well that was way before I was even born, my mother says to me. She is a jolly lady. She plays cards at my aunt’s bungalow years before their fall.

When I killed my sister, she was nearly ten years old. I had to kill her. My father bought a bouquet of flowers and threw five-ngultrum note to a leprosy patient in the hospital. He is smiling and I moved away through tunnel into my tiny, little messy dining room. You, know I am a gentleman now, who lives an ascetic life, which requires me keep away from these beautiful faces that you see every day on the streets – so I picked a rose a day before my sister bothered me in my garden. She wants to plant walnuts, I like mushrooms better. Then I push the pair away from the shore and in late sixties people faced difficulties in climbing trees, which a monkey does it with ease. So, I tried to pluck a thorn to hit in the face.

Hi, you are still that guy who sold chappatis, on the streets down by the sea, right? Good to see you. I thought a car hit on your back and you died years ago in the hospital nearby- isn’t it good to die? I wanted to kill him and climb up the tree, but he says he wants to live a little more. So I will let him live a little longer. He shouldn’t ask my wife any favor from now on. People are crazy. Ha …ha…ha.

On the streets of Lhasa, people are waiting for their loved ones to return. They have have always waited here and China is still big. People have bigger eyes here, which are strained from watching too much. There you see the watchmen over there? They are allergic to people. Sometimes they take turns to sleep in the corridors. Yes, there are also wild boars to destroy our crops. No, I like mushroom curry better. So I hit her with a great force on her nose. It was swollen bit too much. Blood oozed out non-stopping. People are no better than pigs. They hate to brush their teeth and some people’s breath really stinks.

Some years ago, a saint came to our place and he was all miracles. I was not impressed when my two paper boats were washed away by soil erosion. Water was big and full that day. She shouted for help, my neighbor’s mistress, but I dipped her even more into the bucket and poured more water. He was alright until I ran away from home into this wild and cordial jungle. The day before I almost caught a baby elephant. My mother shot a bullet right across my ears. It of course, escaped. She ran and gamboled, limping, limping rolling down the hill. I took it down to my house. I still like mushrooms better!

Blow horn when you see me falling off a tree – horns are made to warn bad people to stop doing what they are doing. Once you get into it, riding is not very difficult, as I have always imagined. Only a bit scary when you put half your head into a big bowl of water! You watch me swim to snowline. That’s where poor snow leopards are forced to live. Their thick furs are good for them. People love wearing new clothes. Jogging is another problem. On my way to a bank, I see a policeman carrying a half dead cat in his left arm. Cars do that and neither people are good species. So I still prefer mushrooms to ferns.

On the day of my friend’s funeral, many people were gathered to witness the big event, a memorable event. Some have thoroughly enjoyed and some lay flat, drunk. I stood near my sister chewing stony curd from Laya. People pretend innocent when they are actually not. Look at the pigeons – they never fight. That’s what I like being a monk. You get to meet the God almost every day. Some days, people in the streets, say that there would be no religions and it is good because you no more have to worry about the sins. You need not pray. Greed. Lust. Jealousy. All. Everything. After all you don’t get any far with it. We travel far with cars. My brother wanted money too. Well, everybody wants it. A few years down the road, I would cook myself a mushroom curry.

Some people think I talk too much. I can’t stop blabbering anyway. They call me mad. Let them do it. I think you’re mad and everybody is, but they pretend they aren’t. So they become one. They are just afraid. They keep quiet, but their guilt haunts their sleep. I still can’t stop blabbering.

177 Mental Toughness Secrets of the World Class: The Thought Processes, Habits and Philosophies of the Great Ones 








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