It Is No Powerful Force.

I switch off the tube light, draw the curtain, switch on the air conditioner and the yellow bulb at the table lamp, and pull supplies close enough such that I will not need myself to shift much to reach them. I proceed to push the blanket such that it stays below my knees and read to myself Keats. To call him ordinary would be a misnomer but I am already inundated with mundane thoughts behind what the purpose of an insincere tonight would be. I could haplessly reorganize similar thoughts and wish they would placate momentary sadness but the fear burrows me to further lows and the only hope is tomorrow's Sunday Express crossword. I have made it a habit to complete it, come what may. Half of it takes 15 minutes, the rest I do at ease taking till the evening to put the final touches. It looks grand when complete.

The Flicker By The Bedside Fails To Help.



Something from a year ago. Starts with something Trent Reznor said and carries as I like it..

"I wrote some words and music in my bedroom as a way of staying sane, about a bleak and desperate place I was in, totally isolated and alone. [Somehow] that wind up reinterpreted by another with a different era of thought, from a radically different mind and still retains sincerity and meaning - different, but every bit as pure.

I will drown in this black chair of leather, bit by bit. Beneath the movements of time, these feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am right here. Trying to move myself away from who I was and who you are, I will let you out.
People think its funny. How we resolve consequence. I am in every bit not arbit. What is done randomly is just another excuse of going through it without a proper explanation.

Needles have become needless now. I fall back on every bit of talk stored in frozen places. This requirement to talk does not exist.

- My hands on these thorns, the keyboard of broken thoughts. I cannot despair. I cannot. -

This was not needed to be sent. You did not have to read it. I am still right here.

This depiction of traits overlapping circumstance. Henceforth was a decision always, hence forth is a word of hope of defeating the idea of 'this' could last longer. The probative principle is to silence the itch and all the words you attach with the word 'if'. Nicely bundled up in a cozy little room for one too many, you just light it up and when you do, the fire is warm in that cold, and that gleeful smile on your face at having done something 'sensible'. Construction starting with destruction, hammers blowing away at the remains of the old structure, the hammering, and in the community center they are playing something at a function, of a more puritan taste though, with a harmonium and the kind of voice you hear at mosques. It's sunny outside, but it's not hot, it's dry. This place is small, this little corner of wounds and trepidations, no triumphs and tribulations of late. A lot of people I come to hate and a lot come to hate me, it's easier to hate when you start to hate where you lie. It's noisy. I haven't slept in a long time; my system has been subject to a harmonious rhythm of nicotine and spirits, everyday, without lunch. A lousy breakfast of one boiled egg in the morning. And a decent meal in the evening followed by dinner. I have stopped bothering about getting rid of my animalistic dissent. I act coy in front of my colleagues giving the impression of an innocence which starts to hurt, there are moments that kill who you once were and then there are moments which kill who you will be. But I am quite right here.

I wrote a lot and then realized none of it woud actually make sense to you. Let alone make sense to me. For starters, I hate boiled eggs. But again, we become so dilapidated in our own conscience that we change from crimson to blue, as the day progresses. I have come to accept, us become haplotypes. I still think why I do not get it all on a platter. I wish I was someone's malediction, to spoil their day. Quench their happiness and shroud it to pieces. This verbose insanity, that I attempt to emit becomes so intense that I lose out on that basic facade that separates. We look at every thing so meticulously and with such a straight face that it confuses the other person's independent thought process. Think about it. They look at you. And then request the trip you are on. Vicious circle, food chain? Whatever. We are stuck at the absolute end point, the depressing one. And we just make it worse. Maybe you do not deserve happiness. Maybe its not supposed to come for the next few weeks. Maybe. Embalmed in this quincunx. You sometimes want me quiet, sometimes listening, your anomaly. I've been reduced but I'm still right here. The only problem is, this isn't happening.."



On another level, I have work to do. Having been given the job to come up with themes evolving around "change", my mind has hit a roadblock. I cannot get myself to accept change, let alone put it in a funny manner. And I was supposedly good at such stuff. What is left of me anyway, I despair.

Cricket and my general displeasure with the shortest form. I cannot stand this version. Yes, I do make it a point to check out the matches if I can get myself to Wankhede but that is about it. Somehow, this makes me realize I will not be able to stand an ODI ever again and I will have to get myself to enjoy this form of entertainment.
It is also funny how people complain the "cricket has become entertainment" and become commercialized and everything else in the same vein. But is cricket not a sport and has not sport always been around as a source of entertainment. What is my gripe anyway.


And I could have written much more, a lot more than what has been presented. But most of all of this ceases to make sense anyhow. There is no point to anything anymore. We live in a cruel world. Where we are made to believe that all things unessential are sacrosanct. But there should be certain method to madness, I need a life wherein I am free to proceed like I wish and free to be whoever I, whoever I want to be.

Hello Newspaper, Goodbye Lifelessness.