The Workings of A Troubled Mind

God plays dice with the human mind.

I am running away from him -- ahead of him. Faster than him.

But I have to write, but not this. I have to write that which evokes laughter - the most paltry of pleasures.

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I am serving against that machine of a man. He has defeated me in a cold ruthless fashion whenever I have tried to challenge him.

He knows what I am going to do next, even before I myself know it. Does he read my mind? But He must honour free-will. He cannot do that...

I have to mix it all up. All my different types of serve have to follow each other in no particular order. If there is any semblance of a pattern, he will be the first to get the correlation.

But how do I decide on how to order things in no particular order?

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That figure is approaching me. I am running faster than my legs can carry me, and ultimately they will collapse.

But I have to write, but not this.

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If he is God himself, he will adapt his game to what I decide to do next. If he is the devil, he will force me to do what is best for him.

Yes, I know what to do - I need a tetragonal die. I can roll it and decide what to do next. The die will tell me, which is the next serve I should use.

But this die is unmarked on all four sides. Help me!

Free-will seems useless. Yes, it does mean I have the right to do whatever I want to do next. But how do I decide? What is the criterion for random decisions?

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My legs have collapsed; this is the limit. I cannot carry myself forward anymore. I have kept up the pace as much as is humanly possible.

I will not haunt this body anymore, unless I can keep writing. But not this.

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I guess there is no use worrying. I have to play my Tennis. Not him, or his.

It is the ball that comes back after I hit every shot. It doesn't matter who is behind that shot.

I need to abstract away the creator. It is the creation that matters for the moment. And I know it is mortal. I know I can treat it with disdain and contempt.

Can I put it beyond the reach of the creator? But I must not worry about it.

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I will be gone, but for the moment. I am his antithesis. If he is an anomaly in this world, I am too. Without me, he doesn't serve any purpose. The anomalies have to cancel each other out. One alone would kill the world.

I have to keep writing, but not this.

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I was woken up from my dream abruptly. Drops of water were falling on my face. It was drizzling. But inside the house?

I was sleeping on a Tennis Court. I must have been running real hard, for my legs felt fatigued. But in my sleep?

There beside me, lay a tennis racquet, and a pen.

The racquet reminded me of my vain attempts to beat the No. 1 during my college days, and the pen, of my vain, unimaginative attempts to write a piece for Frankie's News.

The tennis world awaits the return of Rafael Nadal - he who raced past arguably the G.O.A.T in stunning fashion last year - whose absence at Wimbledon was felt sorely during each of it's moments.

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Today Andy Roddick will step on court and see Roger Federer on the other side of the net. But this Andy is not the Andy of old. Chances are, he will not remember the dilemmas in which he was placed in the past while playing against Federer, nor will he fear the reputation of his opponent. He will just play his game.

Here's for a great Wimbledon Final!

Was that Coke?

(PS : Dedicated to Frankie, one of the few people without whom B/R won't be the same for me.)