Dreams, Desires and Other Things I Used to Have

Many years ago, when asked about what items I would carry with me to a distant island, my answer would be too pragmatic (e.g. computer, books...) if not foolishly religious (e.g. bible). In diaries, I kept track of these answers that lacked imagination and audaciousness.

That was until these answers started unfolding into surreal imaginations to quench simple and basic desires that I often tried to express visually but failed immensely. For example, upon my discovering the inexorable satisfaction that the avocado fruit offered in terms of variety of flavors, vital shades of green, and palpable textures, that are unimaginably analogous to women's flavors (also metaphorically), skin tones and textures, I dreamed of inhabiting an island of infinite avocado and women trees, possibly with cross-breeds amongst the two species where women breast-feed, secrete and, but not necessarily, excrete avocado products, such as avocado milkshakes, guacamole and their cousins. I can vaguely remember if that was through a dream or a day-dream, however, I additionally reasoned that pregnancy was unnecessary as women were sporadically inseminated to reproduce asexually via avocado/women trees and other Daliesque elements...

The reason I am writing this leads to the main theme of this monologue.

I have lately been self-diagnosed with a mild chronic depression termed, dysthymia (greek for malfunctioning of emotions θυμία), if any at all (athymia), and anhedonia (also greek for absence of pleasure) and along these come also nihilistic feelings, lack of ambition and desirelessness, which to my great surprise, is considered as the highest state, or the nirvana in Buddhism, regardless of the paradox of having to desire desirelessness, which was never my case anyway.

Perhaps the surrealist "gyneavocado" island was one of the last dreams or desires I can remember or label earnestly as a dream/desire. Then for a long time I was catching up with the real world and its mundane routines, research projects and mislabeled opportunities...


With a PhD about immune-inspired document classification, I feel as if I have traveled lightyears away from the gyneavocado island I have once dreamed of. The path I have chosen was definitely misleading with respect to my ideal island and I have no idea which path, if any, would have lead anywhere towards it...

Happiness in retrospect is its own termite in prospect. It is even the termite of prospection. 2004, 2006 and 2008 promised me great happiness but did they keep it? That is the definition of beauty according to Stendhal. Interesting how even numbered years of the past decade have been significantly prosperous and prominent, but not 2010. I thought I would have graduated by 2010 and that must have thrown my passion to the nadirs.

Chronic Heartbreak Syndrome

CAVEAT: not for the fainthearted!

Ever since my heart was shattered due to amorous mis-encounters, my meaning of life nullified for failing to prove or disprove anything meaningful and my career incorrigibly confused consequentially, I have been feeling a mild yet endless heartbreak, as if the burning wounds from the past heartbreak have not fully healed. It is very similar to dysthymia, a chronic mild depression syndrome, that I unsurprisingly also suffer from. The suffering is however lamentably bearable enough for me to live with. Otherwise, I would have rebelled and lived differently. But very lazily I seem to vegetate towards the lowest forms of energy. Analogously, a frog accidentally jumping in a pot of boiling water might survive thanks to its fast reflex unlike another frog unawarely heated in a pot of water.  This is what I call decadence. Decadence as I am.  I am not playing the victim, obviously since I am the only reader of my blog and I seldom unveil my desolation in public. I hide it effectively with intensive sarcasm and black humor. I am a seeker of truth and I know that things are best studied when diseased or perturbed. But when will I be done studying my very miserable self? When will I give in to a mundane 8-5 job or a simple wife or a big family? When will I surrender to time? Will time tell? Only when I surrender, time will tell!

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How vain it is to write and more so not to write. So, I write about vain and I wonder since everything I do is in vain, what would the opposite of vain be? Suddenly, the answer hits me. Vain is the opposite of vain, and the desperate hope of escaping it is, alas, vain.