I am walking on the treadmill for an hour staring at a switch board. Five switches, all off. Surrounded by speakers. All black and circular voice boxes in various diameters, on a wooden wall with an antique finish which doesn’t look antique to me just an uneven off white wash on wood. A streak of uncleaned varnish which has been there since the day it got painted. A big white screen set in wood. The switches are still off. Speakers Silent. Screen blank.

I keep walking but I don’t reach anywhere.

I feel sweat trickle down the nape of my neck. Hoping it drained a calorie with it. I look down at my shoes. Worn and well traveled. On the left toe is a black splotch. Greying now. Looks like a stained pocket with a pen leak. Wonder where It came from? Ah I remember it’s a splatter of paint,from one of my long gone art classes. It takes me back to spain. To those three purposeful and passionate months. I miss that place,that time, and the person I was there.

I don’t talk to anyone barring vipul and my kids. Not even my best friend. I don’t want to meet anyone,I don’t want to go anywhere. If I could have it my way I would sleep for hours. I do. Except the hours my kids are around. Other times I force myself to wake up. And those waking hours I stare into space.

Depression?

No! I don’t think so. Just an overactive mind racing in introspection. So many questions and answers non. Exactly like walking on the treadmill. After 7km and an hour I am in the exact same spot where I started.

The questions haunt me.

Who am I?

What do I want from life?

Am I too demanding of life? Expecting too much from each day?

Why can’t I enjoy the pace of a normal routine day so many people enjoy without doing anything earth shattering.

Why do I need constant activity, excitement?

And isn’t that joy possible in my capacity alone?

What defines me? My kids? My Work? Acting? Painting? What?

Why am I driven to insanity by the need for love and passion so forcefull it consumes me. In my relationships or my work as an actor or as a painter?

And What is it that can make me truly happy?

When I was younger I could find happiness in the smallest things. The rains, a favourite song accidentally played on the radio. A little surprise for me. Wild flowers. Cooking a meal with music and a glass of wine. Decorating the dinner table with the wild flowers I’d found, turning a simple dinner into an occasion. A message, a good book, a banal conversation. I could turn anything into a special joyous moment making me happy. I do realise I could do that because I wanted too. It didn’t need an outside incentive.

But over the years Ive got more and more demanding. No not for the materialistic things. I can proudly say I’m not indebted to “things” for happiness. But I have become more demanding of myself. Nothing I do is enough. Not the awards nor accolades. As soon as I achieve a milestone I move on to another venture. Some ventures I come by and others I search for to fill the void. Void of what? I don’t know. But I am just not good enough.

I’m good at my relationships.( or so I think.) a very good homemaker,good cook,a decent actor and not bad a painter(for a beginner.) And yet it’s not good enough.

It’s always about “What next?” In What can I expel my energies now?

I drive myself insane through this almost unattainable marathon. Losing so many moments I can otherwise just enjoy and cherish but which are sacrificed for the next upcoming challenge. And no challenge is sufficient enough to hold my interest for long because once I’ve achieved it I move on looking for the next,not relishing the fruits of it.

I can’t just sit and enjoy a cup of tea without my brain prodding me to get up and do something. Write something,paint something, act,cook,sing,walk,read, clean cupboards. Just do something. Anything.

This constant movement exhausts me. Not the physical exertion but the mental exhaustion.

I understand in theory Everything can’t and shouldn’t have a purpose. Sometimes it’s important to just be and enjoy that moment of nothingness.

But it’s that exact same recommended nothingness I combat with.

When I read what I’ve written I seem to have some understanding of my questions but the definite answers still elude me.

Does anyone feel this way or am I just freak of nature.

Lobotomy!!! May be that’s a solution.