Spilling the guts

I am not sure whether sitting in my hot room, with an upset stomach, sweating it out in front of the computer has something to do with it, but I am feeling miserable right now. I feel like beating myself up. For everything that is my life currently - for the people who are in it, for those who are not, for the work I have not been doing but I should be, for being where I am and for being where I am not. Sounds crazy?

I've been thinking lately (as if that is anything new) about what kind of a person I am. I mean I have all these people telling me good things about me. Then why I do not feel so good? I feel like it is all a big sham! It's just so hard to get me sometimes. Not for other people, because I usually simplify myself for others. But for myself I am this complex, confused, conflicted person. What is that supposed to mean?

Today, just a while ago, I talked. Talked, because I really, really wanted to. I can, when I stop trying, when I let go, when I am free. I was not sure what I would write about before I talked. Now I am not sure either, but my fingers seem to have borrowed somebody's thoughtful demeanour. They are merrily going clackety-clack on the keyboard. I would have written about the way I feel (or felt, or have been feeling), but I am not very sure about what I feel. So this is not a poem, and it is not a story. It is a snapshot of my current neural mess. Where is the objective me?

Lying beside me, on my study table, are two thick papers. "Spherical averages and applications to spherical splines and interpolation." I have to read that. On top of that is lying a half finished sketch. I have to finish that. I was staring at a girl yesterday. Actually, I was studying her walk cycle. It is a miracle I did not get hauled up by her. It is a miracle I have not crashed my car so far, because of wayward staring at this or that. I have just finished reading a most wonderful book. It is like the Alice in me has fallen through the rabbit hole. I will take you along, once I see the movie. I did see Mrs. Smith last week. Yes, only her, because that was pretty much it. Curious thing I noticed during the movie was that when the Mr. and Mrs. were beating each other up, their positions were similar to the ones when they were making love. Ah! I see now. They were not making love, they were having wild, passionate, sex. Oh well, guess people get to do that too. What do I get to do?

The real part of any non-trivial zero of the Riemann zeta function is 0.5. I was asked today whether I can write in plain English, without resorting to poetry or fiction to say what I want to say. Although I said I cannot, I think can. I can as clearly as the Riemann hypothesis can. But I was never very good at mathematics, so I guess all my proofs and conjectures will be wrong. But you can understand me, can't you?

What if I am asleep, when you pass me by? Or looking in another direction? If that be so, just walk up to me and give me a tight slap. I'll know you were searching as hard as I was. And then we would live happily ever after. I always knew life would be a fairy tale, did you?

If you are still reading this, do you know why?