scream of consciousness: confessions of a troubled conscience

who's dumb? scream. consciounce. conscioussness. world. is there another way look at world..
some times i would be hopelessly dumb. but how? hopelessly. whats that? dumbness. that i see a way a grammar of looking at things. is there something like dumbness. may be not. not atleast the other things that exit really. then how's someone dumb.? better understanding of the world? whats that? as if it betters day by day? is nt that dumb? why?whynot? may be not.. cus things /people are'nt like really dumb like me or you? they live. we live. everything exists. time. space. murder is that a dumb thing? conscience? consciousseness? whats the point me typing?
yes and no. we can see the world, not really in categeries may be. may be not. i u.me them. good bad. worse. terrible not bad. all that. world's dumb? may be i am?
but can we be gods? like escaping freudian slips. freudian truths.? may be.. but may be we cant.
world is fucked up. that seems sometimes true. may be not too.. then what is it i wanna type. dunno. then how does it matter.? scream it out conscience. thats what i choicelessly drive myself into. norrow broad? thats another screamatic q. lets wonder. ponder. wilder dreams i've seen. it matters that i exist.. we exist.. it choicelessly matters at times, even if the w is fked up or not..
hedonism. may be that drives me. we cant generalise u see.. may be that drives me, as i am. but freud.. i cant reject.. may be he shd be relooked. but how.. some basic. yea. universal. eralised. morals. may be, even if not 'morals' may be conscience. it drives us. i call some dumb, may be out of conscience. may be out of hedonism. may be both are same. may be they arent. but. base of it. i exist. i like to exist. and may be all of us do. and may be so murder is wrong for me. but how was it right? bot for me, as a i. for some it was. and they showed it that way. then. if some one points gun on me, i 'd feelmurder is both good and bad in the sense that i would probably not mind risking someone's life for mine, or something else just cuz i love existing like anyone else.
well. thats lots of thought mastrbtn. but. murder is bad. now. at this point, if i dont over imagine.
ahh.. but whatsoever. vote for hedonism. to all those sages who convinced and still convince me on whatsoever, cuz thats what it is. i am convinced to love to live to love to live to live.

!@#$#$#$%

Some times we are fucked.Waking up in the spell of sleep, and sleeping while sun is on. Sometimes the word is F. Waking under the songs and tunes of m.s.subbalakshmi’s morningsongs. And sleeping while everyone is still coping up with photons. And only when you look at all the pictures, you see them. The old days. Like the good old one’s. And the bad now ones, as if. To keep up whole night and watch 2 movies and all that would probably mean typing all this. I would probably encrypt this. And sometimes we are more f-ed. Arundathi girl sick. I completes my lost tutorial. Not bad a book it is, only when i look at it back, the stone gods shit. And typing all this would give me a typing practice too. Experimenting days and nights with days and nights and sleep. Its a nice thing. A new thing no one would ever know. Haha. Let the dogs scream into the distances assuming my own presence. I like Bangalore. I miss it at times. To miss it means that feeling unknown that you feel, that kinda sense of loss and all that. Probably you see only that cuz its like pronounced some times. Like the nights like the last one. Rahul! Get up! Its morning. I can tell you, it wouldn’t arouse similar feelings in me, that sentence, now on. Its like sleeping all the day and all the night and waking it all too, like walking through all that in one go. Thats a nice thing. A different one. Like linguistic differences and all that. Got up late yesterday. Ahh.. let me not use yesterdays todays and all of them, that seems to stop making sense to my head now. This morning. Like that bright one, one could imagine in opposition to the night i was awake. Continuity. Continuity, it makes you think different and difficult at times. Got up last evening, around six or something. High. Then thoughts. Types. Movies. Some music. No talks. Type. Type more. Type stone gods book review. Think. Watch more movies. Finally completely saw minsara kanvu., that telugu merupu kalalu. That actually similarises the book i was trying to comprehend., or may be its just my projection. Its seven thirty time now. Morning. Sleep sounds heard. I like it sometimes when i don’t sleep and don’t get it either cuz i might have overslept last two three days. Thats a funny thing: last two three days. People here study a lot. Not all of them, may be., but mostly, if you go to the library all that you see is people studying, especially in that reading room. Thats a funny thing. To read all the time. Have you ever read all the time? What does that mean? Why? I don’t wanna think of how. I can see how. Sometimes all that one can do is, just fucking wait. Wait like a crazy pig that runs around the world preaching some god damn shit to whoever ignores it, just because it has to wait and thats a nice way to wait cuz its a crazy shit. I think of rushme and prithvi and jsph and tarun and aswwini and tejas us and all of them all of us. It leaves a bitter crazyness to wait to meet all of them sometime. And all that you can think of is that crazy pig. I can wake up now. Its morning. Moreover i haven’t slept and there seems like i have a class in some time. Its a good thing to do: attend class. Sometimes all that one can do is wait. Like who imagined or would ever imagine myself being thinking of doing something here in jnu in ma in history in modern history here in this god damn political shit. Who would ve guessed it all. I miss sg playa especially, that image of it, all the more. The smell of forum, smell of the dark dingy rooms we were part of, dark dingy theatres people heads beds and ideas that surrounded us all that romantic piece of crap, all that sparks into the head in a microsecond or so. Just in that much time and then bhooo its gone. Like the wind that blows in anantapur when javed came. Like the wind that i magined in Bangalore on one fine afternoon taking breath in and breath out, waiting, wanting and fearing. The images, some of them no one never forgets. Like the sg playa smell when you get depressed, like the sg playa smell when you have exams, like its colours when they decide to send us into holldays like all that shit, i still can live it all typing it all as i see it all as i try to show it all. The chicken, the hotels of eight rupee dinners, the street lights of psychology exams. The flunking, the narratives created, narcotics imagined, hallucinations felt and went, another day. Another fucking day living with no one talking no one taking no one. And all months spent thinking. Thinking to not think and all that crazy philosophical gibber. And all that crazy walk-alone-nights walk-alone-deppressive mornings, undeppressed switching off the head. And all that. And there would have been time, yet for a million indescissions. And yet i could have typed all this different tonely, lonely. After reading dostoevskys story telling hideousness and raskolnikov and how i went on long night walks Alexander. What a badam milk we would have ruminating the pasts of freudean fortenightly dreams and stream of consciousness walks that would lead us everywhere all those free legged thoughts that would time-travel us thru the ideas each know, waiting for the tea shops to open. Waiting for the nightssleep to stop and waiting sitting down ahead of the closed hotels and shops of sgpalya that slept men inside them and how brilliant is it all to ruminate it all , here and now at such a distanted time and space. In jnu after a sleeplessnight before a sleepy class and in the morning-dog-barks.