There, I must have pissed off a whole billion plus people already. Stay pissed. I’ll stay pleased.
And I’ll get back to what I wanted to talk about. I love Mondays.
Because they help me get rid of the clutter that has made its residence in me in the weekend.
I love Mondays, because there is no freedom in freedom. There is no freedom in floating around the universe, trying to avoid the asteroid like barrage of words from a randomized universe, its randomness cranked up a notch on Saturdays. And Sundays. The only freedom to be gained is from working your ass off.
I love Mondays, because too many people thought I was the vessel into which they’d pour out their thoughts on the weekend, over a cup of chai or lemon tea or a beer or a cigarette or sometimes all at once.
I get it, we are all here to be buckets for others’ thoughts to be poured out into. And it works out fine when the bucket is leaky. That way there is this good equilibrium between what’s pouring in and seeping out. The balance of nature, the joy of flows canceling themselves out. Easy come, easy go.
This way, the flow also ensures I don’t have thoughts of my own. It’s as if I’m busy collecting and directing thoughts like a wi-fi booster. Not that I mind. My thoughts can cause me to cringe sometimes, firstly about the quality of what I think, and about not finding a welcoming bucket for my musings. If we are all buckets, and to take this further, if we are all buckets with a few leaking holes, which means all of us are media for information to flow, how do we maintain the equilibrium around the universe? How does the overdriving self-important banter of one flow downhill into the sponge-like absorbent one who’s rationing out words as if he’s being taxed for them? Sometimes I am the buffer between these two as if it’s my job to ease the flow.
In these instances, I wonder. Is there a law of conservation of words in the universe? Why do some talk and talk, and analogously write and write (see what I did there?) while the others stay mum? I can’t believe that God (I use that term here for the sake of this argument only) in his wisdom gave the gift of the gab to a few and did not give the others noise cancelling headphones to block out the perennial stream. Nope, not even ear plugs. Ergo, God does not exist. Or he is a malevolent god. Take your pick. But I digress from my speculations about the universe. Law of conservation of words. There must be one. And just to spice it up, the quiet ones, the ones who are doing the listening all the freaking time, should unite, surround the loud obnoxious ones, clear their vocal chords and drown out the loud ones in their stream of sounds.
Yes, introverts, I know you can do it. You deserve to be heard, even if your voices are murmurs or the sound of paper being torn. I know, one day you will unite, each at your own desk where you can hear your own breath like a rumble and overthrow these damned extroverts.
And yes extroverts, I know you can do it too. Bottle up your thoughts, we have too many of yours running orphaned. There are not enough buckets in the world to hold your pourings in. You knew that, didn’t you? Also, there are spaces between written words on the page. Bear that in mind when you talk. We normal folk call them pauses. Sometimes the pauses are long. We call it silence. Yes, that joke was funny in your head. If I could, I would send it back into your brain and wipe off all traces of its existence in the real world. We don’t need lame-ass jokes, as if the synchronized laughs at the morning laughter clubs weren’t enough.
In the meanwhile, let’s enjoy our Mondays.
To Mondays. When I can stay at my desk and speak at twenty words per hour. For a whole day. When my bucket is turned upside down. When I’ve plastered all the leaks. When words come at me and diverge into thinner streams like I’m waterproof. Ten to seven. Monday to Friday.
Come Friday, the bucket will be flipped again. I will unplaster the leaks and wait thirstily for all the incoming words from the universe. I will become the sponge again. The sponge in the bucket.
I know you will come back. The pipe bursting extroverts and the sponge-like introverts. You will. I haven’t pissed both of you enough. Not yet.
Until next Friday.