I do not understand if experience has made me more mature or
pretentious. It looks so weird to me today, the things I'd do for love
in the past, for people, for friends and for family.... some of them
I am sure I'll never do again and some of them I surprise myself often
by not doing. A few friends of mine say I'm selfish. If I am, haven't
I grown into it? Who knows? Who walked it? But even if it was so, why
didn't life make selfish things out of people who went through similar
experiences? These days, when I am unhappy, I give it a serious
thought weather or not I should complain. I do complain at some point
though, I hardly have that amount of patience. But the fact that I
give it a thought, the fact that I get scared I'll be repeating
things... the fact that complaining may become acknowledging the
problem muffles ideas in my mind.. isn't it a huge mark on my
spontaneous quotient?

I think this luggage of experience is binding me to something else...
I don't know if I connect to that something of a life...

I don't want experience. I want to give it away, right there. Cry when
it wants to run down my cheek. Slap when the mind is juggled. Run as
soon as it's intolerable. Kiss as soon as it's uncontrollable. Hug
when I'm the most vulnerable, without thinking of the consequences.
why don't I do all this? And the cherry is, I still don't do all of
it, may be I do half of it, and get interpreted as selfish, and hang
between nowhere! I want to be a child again. I want to be an Arian
again.