To be or not to be

I am a masochist. But I am not a masochist for nothing.

I am a slave for work. My body has been complaining for a heavy baggage curving my back. But my head is suffering from a frequent migraine (I stand corrected for my last post. It wasn't occasional) due to lame afternoons spent playing a couch potato. I have been overworking my brain. For 24 hours, it has been doing its job. And that doesn't plainly mean a physiological or neurological norm. "Work" has been penetrating even in my dreams. However, in due lightness of this neurological activity, I get answers and solutions amazingly over my subconsciousness. Then I am able to provide answers. I feel smart. I feel accomplished. I feel fulfilled. I feel I have done so much, that "so much" today means so little tomorrow. That the bar just rises the more I accomplish. Which is good for my career and my morale. AND which is bad for my health and my social life.

I am a slave to love. And that explains why I am this long unattached. I worship the ideal. But I am the master of the real. My brain has been battling with my heart over a period of time, and to date, I have not actually declared which won and which actually raised the white flag. As of the moment, I am arguing with reasons even if, in fact, there is no, none, not a single reason to explain the ineffable joy of being "in love".

Am I really that pyschotic to subject myself into so much pain? That things could have come that easy and simple if I could've been not a masochist? Or would I have been a saddist instead?! A genuine masochist would know. There's just too much in pain that glory can be so much embraced.

Revel in the sweetness of masochism.

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