The Pleasure in Pain

June 1, 2009

is sometimes addictive.

It’s been two years since science figured out that dopamine is responsible for instigating both pleasure and pain. But I guess we humans understood that in some level perhaps even before we could put it into words.

I had my first heartbreak was when I was about 8 or 9. I distinctly remember the feeling as a spear piercing my heart again and again, but I also remember that I craved the feeling much more than love itself. Well, perhaps as equally as love.

I played professional basketball for awhile after I left school, and I remember every ounce of the physical pain that we all endured; 1000 skips a day, 100 pushups, 200 situps, 200 crunches, and a whole heap of running on the beach. We waged war with our bodies for profit and principle, but we endured the pain for its pleasure.

I had a part time lover who was also an athlete. And at times I wondered whether she was testing me or whether she really was into these fantasies of non-consent.

It’s hard to tell really, whether we enjoy the pain, or whether we enjoy the “high” that is left afterwards. The universe divides itself whenever there are two poles. We feel happiness better if we know unhappiness. We feel intense joy, if we are aware of the condition of depression. A simple unadulterated glass of water feels like heaven if we put our bodies through hell before drinking it.

So I don’t know. Is it pain that I crave? Or is the pleasure that comes afterwards?


That is the question.

I probably don’t have the money to pump petrol everyweek, but I do it anyway.

The feeling of driving, the sense of having control, is one of the few things in life that makes me optimistic. Loosing myself in the moment and clearing my mind off everything else, it brings me to a state of neutrality. It’s as if I am really in charge of my destiny, and no one else has anything to say about it.

I’ve made it a habit not to honk, even to the most reckless drivers. The world will be as it is. The only effort that I’m going to invest is into changing myself.

That’s part of why I don’t like bieng driven. Be it public transport, tuk-tuk or taxi, I hate the feeling of bieng dependent on another person. The way my mind wanders off somewhere into the future or entangles itself in a web of the past, while some stranger takes charge of my fate – is just plain wrong and feels like an insult to my existence.

The world is getting ready once again to celebrate your birth, enlightenment and passing away.

After 2500 years, the words you uttered have become a religion. Humans divided by race and culture claim it to be theirs, and have built identities around it. Fairy tales have been written, bloody wars have been fought, civilizations have been seduced and conquered, men have turned into demons, and worst of all- you are being worshiped as a God. Even the tree you sat beside is being treated like a sub-divinity.

Did you know this would happen? Did you have a choice? Perhaps more importantly, do I have a choice?

One more thing, after achieving Enlightenment, why didn’t you go back to Yashodara and Rahula? It’s paradoxical you see, if you really attained enlightenment, how come you had a sense of purpose and a ego to call yourself a Buddha?

You said that the only constant in the world is change. If so, how did you conquer your desires? How did you cultivate a mind which is not subjected to change?

Tell me are you for real? Is enlightment for real?

You’re a great poet, and an old-soul, I’ll give you that. But the decisions you’ve made, and the life you lived are clear signs that we mortals can never live in reality and attain enlightment at the same time.

Yours without faith,



The only charactor in Lost, which seems to be unaffected by time. He’s also the only brown-eyed guy with the sufficient amount of charistma to make me swing the other way.

The guy seems to be a mythical creature hiding behind the scenes of the chaos and drama in the world’s most acclaimed TV series. He’s seen three generations of leaders in the island and was probably influential for their ascensions as well. There are many theories behind his strange existence, but as with everything else in the universe I believe that he’s just a piece in the grand scheme of things.

The serendipity of Richard Alpert is that there really is a guy called Richart Alpert in real life. Known as Ram Dass, he’s an old soul and a harvard professor who experimented with LSD. Both on a professional and recreational basis.

I’ve been reading his book and it’s also induced a sort of LSD affect on me. But I dunno, I’ve been drinking my own blood for the last two weeks and eating lots and lots of pills, which could also be the reason.

I just realized that I can gulp up more than five tablets in one go. With only a teeny weeny bit of water. Yaay!

Conditional Love

April 6, 2009

Java’s post got me thinking.

The world aspires the notion of unconditional love, which I think is due to some sort of hippie spiritual awakening that happened in the late 90s. But it was just a fad and no one really understood it. In real life, we are much more interested in practicing conditional love.

Marriage (a social construct upheld by law) is of course the epi-centre of conditional love. Prostitution is it’s mirror image. Whether you like it or not, conditional sex and conditional love are more or less the different sides of the same coin. It’s a bargain or an agreement between two people. Sometimes it’s three or more, but it’s still the same.

Love belongs to the present moment. Whenever you cling on to the notion of a past life or consumed by the fear of the future, love becomes unreal. It’s simply not love anymore.

No wonder there’s so much jealousy, hatred, anxiety, and fear in the world. We don’t love each other, we love the notion of a future filled with love.

Too much Testosterone?

April 1, 2009

She’s been watching me watching her. Our eyes meet, and she instantly looks down, with a I’m-sorry-to-have-flirted-with-you type of grin on her face.

I lock my computer and move to her table with my cup of tea.

“Good morning.”

She lightens up and acknowledges. I let out a breath of relief. Usually encounters like these end up with a humph, snort and a i-don’t-want-to-get-raped-by-you sort of look.

Our conversation jumps from excellent wifi speeds to stray dogs and then to the hazards of long-term relationships.

“How old are you by the way,” she slips in the question. “Thirty?”

“No. Do I look thirty?” I ask heartily, but she shrugs and becomes silent.

“In my mid twenties.” She obviously needed an answer.

“Are you Married?”

“No. Do you see a ring on my finger?” I fired back.

We were both silent for awhile. Thank god the cup of tea was not empty.

“Oya hari wasai neda?” [Translation: You get angry easily?]

I was a little pushed, but I wasn’t angry.

I wanted to end the conversation on a lighter note, so I complimented her on her long earrings and made an excuse to leave.

On my way down, I kept wondering if what she said was true? Do I come off as imposing? I do speak very little. And maybe I don’t show my emotions as well as I should. Perhaps it’s the testosterone.

The bugger can snuggle into the deep freezer somehow. Think he’s having a go at the ice, cause the meat’s packed in polyethene.

The bugger also has a habit of eating the bananas on top of the fridge.

I don’t mind though. It’s just me, him and the cockroach in my apartment. And we kind of respect each others space.

Poya Day Serenade

March 11, 2009

It’s just amazing to wake up on a rainy day to realize it’s a holiday.

Sipping on my morning tea safely hidden away in my balcony, I languidly gaze upon the earthlings walking about hurriedly in the street. The men choose to run and avoid the rain. The girls jog a little, then stop and walk, then start to jog again – as if not quite sure whether their feet can achieve such a monumental task. The lazy drizzle makes elegant waves of resonance in the mud puddle across the street. Occasionally a child would ruin it, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

Time to make myself useful, so I trod along to the Supermarket. Buy a heap of things I dont’ need, and somethings I do need. The meat stall is closed, so I buy two packs of beef sausages three packs of back bacon. I’m usually a chicken guy, but it’s the poya day no – the government wants us to buy processed meat.

Damn, I have three quarters of the day left. Wat to do? I go to the Serendib Book Shop. Closed. I go to the Sadeepa Book Shop. Closed. I go the refrigerator man to fix my AC. Closed. Oh well. I guess they’re all enjoying the poya day, like me.Yay for them!

I come back home. The cold weather is killing me. I need to cuddle  someone. I try to chat up one of my ex’s for a booty call. She says she has to go the temple on the afternoon with her mum. I tell her that it’s just going to be 30 min tops. She knows me better than I do and tells me that what I really need is an intellectual whore, not a real whore.

Wanting to prove her wrong, I trod along to a massage parlour. Most of the massage therapists it seems, observe sil on Poya Days, and it so happens that the available girls are all busy.

I come back to me lofty abode, rejected, dejected and neglected.

Mix up some Heladiv Lemon Ice Tea with a little Red Label. Ahh…. Heaven. I wondered why I bothered to go out in the first place.

Big Match Fever

March 3, 2009

It’s the time of the year in Sri Lanka where you can bump into overgrown boys in their jocks running around half naked in Colombo, trying re-live a past they have not quite come to terms with.

I’m forfeiting the whole fiasco as I did last year because the cultish-group-masturbation program can get a little out of hand sometimes. Not that I’ve grown up or anything… I’m probably the most puerile male living on Earth my age, and I say that proudly -even more so than Dinidu criticizing the regime.

Big match fever is not about being childish. It’s about being a groupie. A cultist. The mob mentality of 83 was perhaps our nation going through a big match fever on steroids.

Enough said.