THE CONDITION I'M IN

Embarking on this venture to acquire an understanding of the notion of writing social identity is truly a bipolar experience. Whether it is merely a question of being pulled and pushed in opposing directions or suffering on the threshold of a mental disorder, or rather the balance of one’s mind being disturbed, has yet to be decided.

I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in, would be appropriate in the circumstances. At the outset one feels a certain assurance that one is on a track  little travelled by. The concept of innovation strolling around the brain, synapses happily engaged in thought, is a pleasant sensation; however, the feeling is soon engulfed by the plethora of ideas and references contained in the first text one picks up, and the pleasant feeling subsides from the realisation that the strolling concept of innovation reveals a cavernous dearth of knowledge and ideas about the brain. The synapses cease to tingle, the neurons hover and the transmitting pulses subside.

The little travelled track has become Oxford Street on a Sunday, the Fifth Avenue Easter Parade, Bastille Day on the Champs-Élysées, May Day in Moscow. Yet, by and by one comes upon a text that re-inspires, taking one again off piste on the precarious, perilous, expectant amble towards elusive innovation.  This state of being does not last long. It is, after all, elusive; and so one embarks on fleeting flights of erratic and ephemeral wanderings. There is never a straight line. Spirals constantly crisscrossing, occasionally allowing a glimpse of light in some clearing in the beyond.

I have only begun the formalities or registration. Can I really do this for three or more years?