A porous boundary separates the inside and the outside. The personality that I project and protect, that gives me the pride and the shame, that I both want to embrace and transcend is simply that porous line. Nobody, not even I, can see what's inside- its too opaque. And the line is porous, it has to be, not just metabolically but also metaphorically- The former because the inside cannot sustain itself without the outside and the latter because everything I do is an extension of being part of the world. I am what I do and where I do it is in the world- It is my stage, my playground, my laboratory, my sanctuary.

At its most abstract that is fundamentally what life is. Mystics might say the line creates not just the protectorate but a prison- erase it. I understand the sentiment but boy is it hard. What am I if not just a provisional list of likes and dislikes, opinions and inabilities. What would be left of me if I let go of them? I know what is to be something, and while that something perhaps prevents me from becoming everything, I'm more afraid of becoming nothing in the process. So leave me with my petty desires and squabbles- for now. The line is also an act of discretion and defence- I'm also defined by what I resist, what I refuse. Then is the line a good thing? It is not accurate to say all good and bad is relative. To be a human living in the world is also to be a moral agent, and that means categorically stating some actions as wrong. But to be honest though, there are so many atrocities going on in the world right now, inexcusable, horrendous, causing so much suffering, and I'm still able to ignore all that and live a fairly comfortable, happy life. What moral compass then? Is it just an excuse to get my way with people around me? Is that all there's to my small, inconsequential life- He came, He moped about trivialities, He died?

But my life and my world are the only things I know, that seemingly I'm capable of knowing. So while they maybe miniscule objectively, they are all I have to play with.

Which brings us back the question- How to live?

What if a good life and a great life are not points on a trajectory or complementary but infact antitethetical to each other? If a good life can be defined as cherishing what you have, immersing your physical and intellectual capabilities in enjoyable pursuits, and being your best to people around you, and the aspiration for a great life exhorts one to chafe against limitations of birth, circumstance, and friends and family, to create, or die creating, work that transcends one's proximate spacetime, what does one choose? While they may align occassionally, for the most part they seem to be forking paths, and my life eventually is the choices I've repeatedly made.

Am I unhappy? My daughter brings me great joy. At this point of my fatherhood, I don't repent anything I've had to relinquish for her. Honestly I don't even look at it that way; But I'm afraid if a day will arrive when I'll feel that regret and blame her for it. My life feels okay, comfortable, joyous in her presence, so why do I feel like I'm treading shallow waters instead of deep diving into my own life? I'm making a living, raising a family, taking occasional vacations, reading periodicals and listening to podcasts to keep track of what's happening in the world, pursuing hobbies, have a set of people I talk to semi-regularly, so why does my life still seem lacklustre, limbo-like? Hours of deep involvement and joyous levity are rare. Is that the nature of life or am I doing something wrong?

I don't have grand dreams of fame and success anymore- I don't fantasise of making a film that'll be loved by many nor write a book that'll change the world. Perhaps I've given up on greatness. Why am I not able to do goodness either then? There's nothing like being with Noori, but its only for a few hours a day. The rest seems like a set of chores I have to go through while I wait for her to come back and bring light and life- Even when she's being really cranky and stubborn, and I'm exasperated and super pissed, I feel so much more alive than when she's not around.

I've come to believe we're both energy consumers and producers in the world. A person who brings life to a room is a net producer, and I feel most of my days are spent with adults, who like myself, are net consumers- waiting, hoping, readying to vampirically suck off energy. None of us are necessarily malicious, just clueless. And we turn into energy sinks when we're not aligned properly with the trajectory of our deepest - desires is not the word but something akin to it, almost a trait, the core of our being. Everything else is a distraction, memetics, a shallow regard for appreciation, a weakness that others can use for their need. Unfortunately I don't know what mine is or even if its stable. I only recognise it during those hours and days when I'm better connected with it, when I feel a thehrav.

Half a lifetime ago, when I was 18-19, and we'd spend the evenings in cafes discussing cinema, with Deekshith, Raghav, Gaddam, Alex, and later Dheeraj, et al, there was a restlessness to go out and actually make a film. But the more pervasive feeling was that of sheer joy and excitement at discussing cinema, I'm surprised to recollect the joy I exuded when discussing writing, the thrill at having read/watched something that resonated deeply and having like-minded enough friends to trip on it for hours. I'm sure it wasn't all gold-tinted as my mind's eye sees now but I miss being so passionate about something.

Age brings jadedness, seeing one's own weaknesses, youth slipped away makes it hard to get excited at new prospects, failure after failure breaks resolve, realising you're the different kind of laakhon mein ek, inconsequential, irrelevant, yet another opinionated, useless idiot- these truths separate the 18-year old naive youth from the 36-year old feckless man. And yet I can't help but believe that there still lives in me that capacity for awe, involvement, that kind of nimagnata.

In the last couple of months I wrote a few of these little notes but found them not-good-enough to post here. Interestingly, and this has happened a lot of times over the years, posting here, irrespective of quality and intentionality, has always led to a (temporary) salvation. I haven't rambled so incoherently here in a while, I think, and while its embarassing to post like I'm 19, I'm also relieved at being able to just sit late in the night and let these words out. I don't know, I don't know..