Why I look down upon people

Well, I can't be more frank. The quotes that you see in newspapers are hardly ever spoken by those smiling faces with beautiful smiles. It is me, the psst-you might wan to say this-helpful but hassled reporter behind. Similarly, the enthusiastic sound bytes on radio that you hear and all those witty slogans and cheesy smartass lines that make you guffaw are rarely uttered by those squeaks. It is me, the sunburnt-deadline bound-tout savant jock who knows that it is beyond you and your spontaneous intellect/creativity to come up with such interesting things. Almost like a film director, everytime, I first visualize and then like some outcast Parajanov, I resign to fate accepting that nobody smart and funny roams the streets in daylight. So, I write a script. What to make people say. Done. Go, explain, street actors, brilliant work. Some can't even do that much. So? What happens when no girl can speak on cricket? Its me, I modulate-change pitch-package and its done. All this just affects in one way, I lose more and more interest in the queerness of people on streets and in media's "fun work".

The diary of a tired worker

It was hot, burning. I am singed and my face is red. The morning was spent in cold dungeon office setup like a lost puppy or a mole lurking in silent sound proof corridors, all red and green and locked and beeping. Shrilly women and men with the best sounding voices ever made me think what I would do for a month. Again the sinking feeling in the stomach of mine about corporate creativity and how I become a dumbass the moment I am hit by such waves of confident professional setups. Day got better. Evening even more assuring. Hopefully I should sail through. The burden of watchful ears is horrible. Hate to let em down.

In between, on the train

Running amok

Stones are walking backwards by me
Cars are bumping into me all along
I seem to pull the rain so down
The yellow hat can't fly back up again
Sandal shape invaded by my toes
The road is gathered more and more
Like a seven meter sari and my greed for all its ends
Running tunes are grabbed by me
Poor notes are chewed out helpless
As the clothes are hurled into bags
Their peace is disturbed by all my drone
Even the last of laughs is not spared
They are all pasted with glue to my lips
The chair swivels under my bum's weight
All the mint washed down in my belly
So many missed rings are buzzed to lure
But the answers are never picked by me
The world seems spinning and riveting
Off and even out of bounds
Wonders comes to the back of mind
When I realize
I am restless and my hands
Are unscrewing the well fit globe.

When Grandpa died

This comes in light of the developmental psychology paper that I have just passed. I read in the textbook yesterday that widowhood can be one of the most horrifying and crippling experiences.So, I was reminiscing about my maternal grandpa's death. I have no memory whatsoever of any pain associated with it though I knew him for more than ten years. All I remember is weird cut up fragments like me skating at home and my mum telling me that he is dead, the next day my grandma and hundred other people sitting quietly in white clothes making a spectacle of something sad, my mum weeping at every instance his name was mentioned. In fact, I made a heroic deal out of his death at school and felt some pleasure out of being in some special experience. This is all. Then, dispassionately I shifted my gaze to grandma wondering how she must be feeling at the time of his death. How ever could she let him go? How could she even see him breathe his last and shrink to four feet of body just like that? I probably would cut my own nerves and die with him. That got me to think what would I do if i were so deeply in love. Probably I would fall sick everytime my partner fell sick and be ready enough to die the moment I felt the other one is gonna die. I just cannot imagine death, bereavement and then as my textbook says:
First disbelief, then preoccupation with mental images of the dead loved one and then final resolution back to reality

Death and experiences of dead ones are not a drug that I can return after a trip. Is everybody so persistent on remembering dead ones or disbelieving the truth? My mum goes helping the needy in his memory but what does she really feel about the person she has lost? What am I, a super glue attached person or does everyone feel remorse on death so much?