Stream of Consciousness

So I finally finished reading that book you see on my Shelfari, "Only Love is Real." (Thanks Su for the read! We'll swap when we see each other). It was pretty good, but kind of predictable in a novelesque sort of way, despite it being non-fiction. The book was basically an exploration in seeking our "past lives" in order to heal present wounds. For example, the patients in this book that the psychiatrist chronicles come into his office with particularly traumatic experiences and he helps them visualize who they were before they were their present self. I don't know if I totally believe in reincarnation, but I've thought about it many times, especially in light of learning about Hinduism and watching all those episodes of Mahabharat and Ramayan on tape. I wonder where my soul was before I was born; I wonder if my present self is either a punishment or a reward (depending on how I feel) for who I was before.

The book helped make a long bus ride back home go much faster. This bus was particularly intolerable, however. There were so many fruit flies in there! It was really repulsive, most everyone on the bus had to endure 2 hours of swatting these little pests. All I kept thinking was "Health Hazard!" Fortunately, the last half hour was more bearable because the bus got so cold that the flies probably dispersed to some icky crevice to nest until it got warmer. Ugh.

Weekends go by so fast. This Saturday we went to my cousin Jagan's house for his 12th birthday. I can't believe he's twelve! I remember getting so excited when he was born because he was our first male first cousin. Anyhoo, the party was ok although very crowded and not as fun simply because everyone couldn't really talk to each other properly. We did get to play on Jag's Nintendo Wii and all I have to say is I WANT ONE. NOW. Interactive play is my kind of video-gaming.

I miss being a kid, mostly because you would have hours to do absolutely nothing and just bond with your siblings. I miss my sisters. I haven't seen Nche in over two months. Is adulthood really this empty? I often think about a book Ms. Schwartz, one of my high-school teachers, used to pimp in a class which name is lost to me. The book was called "Who Moved my Cheese?" and I thought she was so annoying for constantly drilling the concept of how growing up means adjusting to new ties, new people, new places, new thoughts. As quickly as I dismissed it then, the lessons from that book haunt me now. I guess I am that little mouse who is reluctant to progress, an old soul in a confusing new world.