Muse

Impulsion.

What would be the best way to paint the picture of impulsion? In words? In actions? In regrets or in boastful claims of I-did-that-last-summer? Suddenly all my 'conquests' in life isn't such a proud thing to display after all. At 23 (almost), what would be the wisest thing to do with all my past 'proud' moments is to swipe all those written claims and shred the pictorial evidences when nobody is looking. Luckily, most of the time, nobody is looking much this way. I seem to be trekking the trail of my past, picking up the pieces, editing it along the way, in hopes of re-creating a more acceptable me. Identity crisis at this point is life is baffling.

Circling back to impulsion. What do we know of impulsion aside the fact that it is often linked to spontaneity, stupidity and sheer adrenaline? It brings about transient moment of highness. If sarcasm is cheap humor, impulsion is cheap cocaine.

Try jumping off the cliff in the instant you feel like flying.
Try popping Hersheys buttons continuously for that sugar rush.
Try hopping into you car at 2 am, driving alone where the freeway would take you.
Try kissing that stranger you been staring at the whole night, see where he'll lead you.
Try showing up in the airport, buying the ticket to the first destination you can think of.
Try climbing up to the rooftop and look below your feet, is another step exhilarating, or plain foolish...

The many instances impulsion can seem fun, but with dire consequences. Don't get me wrong. I love spontaneity. It defines me for a very long while now. But age is catching up, as are many other things. I can no longer afford impulsion. We grew. That is the reason why. Consequentialism became my pillar of ethics. All the probable outcomes flood your head before you even decide. And now you know why the females think too much, unlike our counterpart who eat first, then worry about how much to pay.

No, we don't work like that. We think of how much the cost, how much we have in our wallet and whether or not the dish is worth it. By the time we are done thinking, chances are we'll pass the dish. It is too much a hassle.

I can still ride on the spur-of-the-moment, but I know I'll come to regret it when I get off at the next station. What a fucked up concept isn't it? No wonder as we age, some regress back into the woe-less state of our childhood. Who says it is pathetic and undignified to live in such a state? For some, it just may be a blessing in disguise to not want to be a part of the world they're leaving from anyway.

Passing on happy, and without memories of the long life they lived. That just may be nirvana. Detachment. Or is it?

Would you be the one that argues memories, be in written in tears or smiles, are what constitute the pages of existence? Without them, we are nothing but walking talking stereotypes living in utopia. Freaky, I know. Imagine smiling all the time at such perfect life. Out tear ducts would definitely atrophy into oblivion. I love crying. I had to force myself to cry sometimes just to make sure that my tear ducts still function.

So yes, on the scale from 1 - 10, how contented am I with my life you ask? Well, I'm sorry. I refuse to answer you, cause I have yet to live enough of it to rate it. Perhaps I shall on that day I decided I'm bored or that day I have an uncontrollable impulsion

*Grins*

Right now, I have this itching vibe resonating in my head since 20 minutes ago. It was this bloody nagging impulse that kick me out of the lumpy thing you call a bed to type out this post. If I did not blog tonight, chances are you'll most probably find me speeding at 150 on the road to Tioman. I miss the moonlit beaches in Payar. It's perfect for a night like today.