Romanticizing my day : How I did it?

Romanticizing my day: How i did it?

Manifestation

I have heard of this term before, so called manifestation or imagining your future like it is real, like a mental drama played in the screen of mind, which might become real of viewed often, and believed in it. Can this actually work? I have doubts on this technique just like you. It feels as if its a method for a fool, who like to believe instead of doing actual work which needs to be done, a method for a procastinator, a good way for a couch potato to put off things once again, each night before bed. So, I never tried this, as I had doubts myself about my own future, as a mathematician, I would talk about the future in brobabilities with numbers instead of certainities of a clergyman who have been in a dialogue with god since he started to dwell in a place on the altar. But I have imagined my own future with uncertainities which resurfaced anxieties of the inner demon of myself, as I have lived in fear my whole life of faliure. I was afraid to manifest. What if it became real? That I became a confident young enterprenure or a millioneire who owns a farm and a horseshed or a billioniere who owns a supreme yatch, or a monk who knows everything about himself and the world and realised everything is fake. Am I brave enough to manifest myself without all the uncertainities of life, and be unprepared when the roof of my house start to leak tracles of water when it rains during monsoon, or hit by another cyclone of ditwa? Will that land hold, with a big slide excavated by the last cyclone hit reminding the devastating nature and undevided brutality of it. Would praying for the victims of nepal would prevent flash floods in the rest of the world tomorrow. And what about the manifestations of the wise old people who believed in various gods protection, and what crimes they have done to not to given a second chance at life but be burried under the mud with their manifestations, hidden 12 feet underground in remote himalayan valley of Trushuli.

Floods

Romanticizing my day.

Instead I chose to romantisize my day. Well, can we call it manifestation, I am not sure, as the latter feels like another burden, another tidious task that I have to do each and everyday before my bed, I choose the latter name for it, as it feels like something I would do in the begining of the day, something which is cheerful instead daunting, and something I look forward to with instant gratification, as my mind is fully automated by the digital screens, that I am surrounded with to have just only 10 second attention span. So, yes I feel romanticising is the term and it feels great and fun thing to do everyday. But how?

I would say like I have fallen in love, with the day ahead, truely, and honestly, like the heart and feelings of a teenage lover, with pure intention and no evil, towards myself. I would fill my day with self love, with words of forgiveness at the begining for all the wrong doings of my past yesterday self, I would romatisize my work, that good things happen in the bus ride to work, that I would bring about a smile to my anxious coworker who had barely missed making a terrible mistake, which would have cost someone a life, that I will feel relaxed and peceful even looking at the tower of files and four figure inbox with emails, evinced of my habit of procastination.

I would romatisize my afternoon to be with a book, a novel perhaps, to dream to be stuck in a boat, a peaquad perhaps, with another Ishmail and a captain Ahab, hunting whales in perilous atlantic sea, after dancing to the music of south indian singers, until I sweat off all my stress hormones accumilated during the day, without ever stepping a foot in a modern gym filled with people with musles but no brains, with eyes but no vision and with ears plugged with constantly crying ear buds. And doze off in the dim lamp light remembering the days of dacades past when I curled up with siblings in a bundle under a candle light, listening to horror ghost story, on the radio, that made a strange sqeak, whenever there was a gush of cold wind through open windows, which gave an open invitaion to intimidating mosquitoes to our sensitive skin which we tried to hide with thin smelly blankets.