Impulsiveness will be my nemesis, someday. You tell me, "Be careful not to bump into that wall, you will get hurt". My restlessness grows and is vented out only when I kick the wall and limp on my bruised feet, content in the knowledge and first-hand experience of the pain of kicking a wall. I need to know things for myself. I will hear the advice, read the wise words, nod approvingly at the sermons of infinite wisdom and caution; but in the end, I'll run headlong into that wall, you know, just to make sure. Instant gratification, sometimes it provokes the impulsive behaviour; the irrepressible urge to let something be known, to go somewhere, to recreate a memory, to meet a certain person, to write for myself, to just escape. I never foresee the ramifications of acting on my impulses; I just do it, because that's what I want to do at that very moment. I had once told someone that I loved him, after knowing him for just a month, knowing fully well that the answer wouldn't be what I wanted to hear. One day I woke up before sunrise and set off on a long drive, with no destination in mind, just because the road didn't end, and it felt like an escape, from I know not what. Yesterday I told a near stranger things I had never told anyone, aware of the uneasiness such revelations will cause, and on a reckless intuition that they wouldn't be shared with another individual again; just because I felt like writing it down and telling someone, "Hey, this is me, you know. I know resilience." Nowadays, I speak up if I feel something is wrong, not worrying about revering age, or giving undue consideration to the consequences that would follow. My mercurial temper had tapered down over the years, I am surprised and somewhat amused at my own patience. I am not too optimistic about the eventual dwindling of this recklessness and impulsiveness that creeps up on me without any warning. Someday, hopefully, life would make a person with calculated moves and measured words out of me. Till then, I will continue to wear my heart on my sleeve.
I procrastinate and put off things till the maximum time admissible without any adverse effects on the outcome. So instead of pursuing a consistent study schedule of at least ten hours every day for two months, I prefer studying fifteen hours per day for one month. It's the poorer choice, but until the moment I feel the fear and the adrenaline rush of knowing that I can't delay a task anymore, I don't feel any joy or enthusiasm in undertaking it. It leads to anxiety, and that's not a habit one needs to cultivate, but some people thrive on that essential anxiety, that aura of unrest. I am one of them. One month till an exam, and the study marathon begins from today; social network deactivated, TV disconnected, all novels (except for three) shoved into a trunk. Only three portals of connection with the outside world: gym hour, blogging, and highly filtered phone calls and texts. I need to re-read the massive Kaplan and Saddock's Synopsis of Psychiatry, and it would be one of the rare times I haven't felt studies as a chore, but as fun, like reading a good story.
The review of the book I'm reading, Italo Calvino's Difficult Loves, will be posted soon. I am now onto the last story in the collection, Smog. A friend e-mailed me a delightful post enlightening people on why they should date a bookworm; it was adorable and made me smile for hours, wondering when would I find my fellow-bookworm. Read it here. "A true bookworm will go far beyond the traditional flowers and chocolates and move onto professing their love for you in the pouring rain without an umbrella." That got me thinking. If I don't re-create all the good ideas that I had read in my one and only life, it would be a sheer waste to confine them to a corner of the hippocampus. I'll keep a notebook for that very reason from now on, collecting pebbles of romance from the books I read. If anything, it'd make a nice read on a dreary day.