Sleep has washed me over like a refreshing dip in a cool pond on a blazing hot afternoon. And the evening darkness leaves me a little disoriented. Confused between early morning and dusk I step groggily out of my room and reality grows on me. Dazed and confused, grogginess and the slow submission to reality; is somehow the motif of my life. Like when you read the review of some pretty acclaimed book or movie and the reviewer talks of motifs. This is like that; except this is a pretty lousy assed book/movie.

Just finished reading The Stranger and the presence of a void filled with meaninglessness seems to be the only plausible explanation. Even though we didn’t fight any great war, which is part of my belief about how such a book came to be written, my penchant for romanticising leads me to believe the war has been inside us all at some time or another. To find cause and effect is essentially an attempt to find hope.

Hah, now that I sound sufficiently hollow I will shower and go back to day dreaming about how to paddle to the shore now that the Amazon is widening up and the current is getting stronger. The story till now has mostly been about how my amazing survival skills have seen me through near death after I lost my way in the greatest rainforest. This rickety raft I built out of balsa wood has been my saviour, helping me get out of this forest of phantasmic of visions as quickly as possible. The strong current is pulling me out into the sea and the Pororoca waves threaten to tear my raft to pieces.