Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Last night was a pleasant one. It is like a set point in time. A sand-bar. And once you literally cross the bar in time, you don't feel sleepy. So, i decided to eat an Orange, the fruit of abundance and lust. The skin was thick and so i dug my nails all around. Orange smell sprayed all across. Against the light of the computer, bitter semi-liquid particles were released. Then i thought of June and pineapples as i dug further in. Then, thinking of the green monster in the christmas film, i withdrew my finger. It wreaked orange juice and shreds. I almost felt like the green monster with big black nails as I licked and lynched it. I thought of all assignments, spat seeds at her bum, licked at my lips again thinking of immeasurable possibilities, muzak, linge. Period. I typed "linge" in the computer, silently conspiring for it to be in dictionary. But the moment the cursor moved, it gave me a "hah-you think i won't notice" red line. I love my photos, benign like lamb. I was dreaming of mommy the other day, how she felt so tired carrying her son all around on the scooter with a daughter who was really no help. I wonder where ther father was. The mouth was like a juicer, the orange's thick skin and shreds knotted in my teeth. Suddenly, I grunted at that ostentatious display of contextually modern technology. I can't write on paper, it seems, hah! I was actually so pleased because he can’t write shite without incentive/compulsion. Even then, come out carefully grafted samples of a capitalist mind. All geared towards production and worth. Conservative, paleolithic man. Those rotten wrinkles that so pleasantly come near his eyes, making a perfect argument for the "in pursuit of practical happiness" types, read money, read backing, closing of walls on his face, then the tower within that detects intelligent words around sucks them in, Bluetooth, free sourcing, plagiarizing, that too with some OS which is dysfunctional, instead of minimizing it enlarges all words, then repeats them thrice and more times and drowns all other hopes, thoughts etc in those “ what I think is...” and “actually I believe (content: what people said over a million times)”. Suckling on an orange I felt like a witch. Difficult to wean. A bitter aftertaste. Burp. Burp. The juicer mouth is done with work. Remains sticking to its inside like some lumps stuck in the cement mixer huge machine. The work is done. No show.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
How could I be so base, so cheap, and so callous at the thought of wishing someone to be dead? I didn’t mean it. I know that for sure. But still, I spoke as if my personal tripping pebbles which are still etched beautifully in the mind are more important than wishing someone alive. For that particular moment I was what I have always wanted to be, purely spiteful and malicious. I didn’t need a reason to hate or wish for someone to die. But I did. I was reprimanded and I actually felt bitterness, almost the same that those ghastly and beastly characters feel when their vengeance is exposed and mended. Aware of the head’s every action and purposefully taking those stances, postures, throwing glances and giggling away, it’s all in the wanting to be. Fidgety hands, a deep rooted, accepted failure to look at myself as a lovable person, meeting people only to put them either above or below and to talk accordingly, are not me. Yes, I can decide and I am doing so. I am sure there are millions of flaws in me. No, I am not even nearing to debate what a flaw is. All I know is that unconsciously I portray a lot of my own self which I don’t choose to. Maybe it is that which draws them all and keeps them at bay. It again drifts into an acutely meditative tirade but I am all I have. It is so happening! I always wanted to run away and not have anyone keep asking me what was wrong. I achieved it very well today. And that is not what I want anymore. But today I also want a toast and some milk at night, being asked what is happening in my life, some pampering, some wise gaze over me which tells me, “Listen you little thing, this is no shit. Come to me with a dumb face and I am not going to take advantage of your ignorance, your laziness or your fears. Rather I will make it a cakewalk for you.” But it doesn’t happen. No one has willingly heard my rants. But I still do it for others. But then listen! Even I am not going to be the happy mannequin face that takes all your woes and tries to swish a magic wand so that at least you move out of the damage area. If this is goodwill, I mean it, I better get returns.
The worst grief is that the moment I cry, everything appears clenched in a very familiar old muck. It is like the same rotten Burberry biscuit that you bite into on every birthday, just which your taste buds develop a bit more each year, giving you a more wholesome experience of the putrid taste. I am doing way too much and I don’t feel happy about it. My joy needs to come. There will be no didactical pedantic description of how to be happy. Normalcy and the loss will be spoken of later.
Biraha, the grief of being separated and away from what perceives as one’s own or the sadness that surrounds when one senses a future loss of a perceived important person in one’s life. Such Biraha surrounds in urgent hours of ten at night. The loss is not painful because it depicts the going away of them but that it indicates emptiness when you suddenly turn a card and become a page that is long turned and yellowed. Helplessness twirls around like small leftovers of a whirlpool. All you can ask is why such persistence. It makes one wonder if they actually realize how important time is and whether they know that in spite of using all cosmic energies they will never be able to return to this point in time, emotion, situation and age as now. I want to run like Whitman, naked and undisguised and gain that ideal, godly stubbornness and loaf around. But attachments make me weak. I, who has never had attachments and have willfully ranted, will persevere to be so, but in a more tranquil and introspective way.