madam bovary

with the french classic fm playing in the background, i had the sudden urge to write : have not written for months . and i would blame the fact that my muse got lost in my upheavals of ego. i would like to write : as i am feeling more than anything now days. i feel for the characters . am back to dreaming about paris , back to getting excited about prospects about being someone's muse and back to staring at sky. does life keep giving you these extreme breaks : and you keep getting these shots without realizing we are falling into the trap of continuous ennui.

with the books : it gives me a feeling that  am looking for a specific character in the books : a woman who is confused : and what level of confusion am i seeking is something i am still confused about . but the woman is confused. i like it when woman are confused and when they trying to justify their acts, their thoughts , their silly dreams, they fears. everything becomes like a elaborated scheme . yes : on one hand have madam bovary who is doing a fantastic job of giving me a great solace and on other hand woman writers are giving me the hope that there does exist this language of confusion. maybe i am looking for a language , and since i am not sure of the script of this language, i keep referring it to as confusion. cos when i was Foucault girl talking about my experiences and she talking about hers : it was all conundrum of thoughts : and i could see the pattern of confusion : just like madam bovary : whose sighs, hysteric convulsions : everything seem to make sense to me .
maybe its not repetition after all, its the inevitable which i have been procrastinating   . things keep happening and after sometime one does realize the pattern . and worse is if one refuses to accept the fate . and one pretends to fight the forces of the nature . and pretends that one is going to change this pattern. one is going to break away from the cycle of repetition. i do not know what is more scary , the thought of breaking the pattern or knowing the repetition and yet reliving it everyday.

so y is woman's hysteria playing such a big role in the backdrop of this repetition. the only thing that keeps me from drowning in my nightmares of thoughts.

if bovary wanted a life, she would have run away but the problem is she would have never run away : just like the Foucault girl , she would have never leapt out of Foucault world. she was right : french world was different from ours. and i was living a life which was neither based in paris and neither in london . i could never understand their pain and neither their romanticism, even though i felt it. and i am still feeling the same what i felt 5 years back. just the degree of it has changed and so has consequences.