October 02, 2006

Prototype

I am the perfect prototype of Robinson Crusoe. Only, it is not on a deserted island I learnt to survive, but in a deserted house. By house I mean the two figures that are supposed to emanate everything from protection, model, guide, help, friend, teacher, otherwise called parents. A house is supposed to be the very first school of the child, the primary social cell, from which the child is supposed to be taught everything about life and about how to be ‘a good citizen’ (social studies textbook). So, at the young age of 10 I was condemned to a life of self-survival in society. I self-educated myself as best as I could. My academic education was everything normal, I learnt maths and languages. But other than that, I read lots of books, watched TV and then I discovered Music and Religion. Everything that offered some path to follow was welcome. At 21 I can sum up my self-education in these few streams that have mattered in some way or another: Nirvana and the whole mainstream alternative rock influence, Hare Krsna and the Bhagavad Gita, Mr Malloo, Mrs Punchoo, my best friend at 17, Bernard Werber, the internet, Sister Niti, 1132, everything I could absorb from the girls at school (which my intellect judged ‘right’), Anne of the green gables… There were others, but these are the main ones. And now I can see the Crusoe effect, the aftermath: differences I can pinpoint from my self-education to those of others that were ‘pruned’ by 2 lovely, loving parents. The main one is pure self-confidence. The problem with me is that, when I see I lack something as compared to my colleagues, say for example something as random as the fact that I don’t wax my arms, or something deeper like I dont socialize very well, this causes a pattern of thoughts inside my head that is not necessarily how everybody else would have interpreted it. 1. I see something wrong with myself 2. Ok, so we have to change it 3. Ok, so let’s try changing it 4. Ok, so it’s changed. When I was younger for example, I was so much into Anne of the Green Gables, that I decided to let my imagination flow freely too and invent short stories inside my head to keep me company when I feel lonely. And now, this has become something I do all the time, since then. Something like an artificial, manmade me. Such that at this point, I don’t really know where the boundary between the real me and the self-educated, ‘invented’ me really is… Like Crusoe maybe didnt know where his planted berry bushes end and those of the forest begin. Ok, crap example, if the berries grew in the forest, why would he plant them? I dont care, I am Crusoe nonetheless, self-educated, on my tamed island, standing straight, dealing with the everchanging weather as best as i can. At least I am still alive and as healthy as you can get in these circumstances…


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