My wishlist on the last day of 2010 : Generous doses of serotonin

I have one month to wrap up a part of my life this January, and I hope to do it well. And then hopefully I go home with sturdy and rational opinions, calories and calm. Sounding right is what I should be getting used to.


Always remember : There are six impossible things before breakfast.


There might be another city to look forward to as well.
I can hear the bookstores calling for me already, readying up a glamorous world that I side stepped and skip hopped. And D says that you'd rather be living in a city with those stunning TIME OUT issues rather than one without.


This blog would no longer consist of mutilated experiences and wallowing self help dwellings. My invisible audience deserves better and..


...I could do better


Happy @)!! (2011) 


I raise a toast to the devil's drink that kept us sane throughout.
xoxo

Because all I ever wanted to do was mow lawns, cut grass and kiss the flowers goodnight

I have been dying to feel Tim Burtonesque since quite sometime now. The closest I've gotten to is wearing black.

Weeks end badly. Worse, I feel Kafkaesque.

I ran up the stairs today because that was the only exercise I could afford. I could’ve redefined the phrase ‘tired to the bone.’

A steaming hot water bath, boiling tomato soup, one black coffee, one cigarette and I am still cold. All of a sudden I realize it’s not the weather anymore. Its just me. I am just cold.

You just wait it out..says D..New Year’s around the corner. Things look pretty glum for a New Year. Adding to all that glumness is the queasy fact that I would be selling insurance policies for three fucking months all by myself. On the bright side, apart from inconsequential learning, I would also be working on a piece titled A Bird's Eye View of an Antisocialite. 

And perhaps it was time I realized that staying away from him would do me more good than harm.

Life just gets harder, and as it gets harder, harder it is to sustain madness, to sustain brilliance and anything even remotely beautiful

So I raise a really sober toast to great writing and great ideas.

Great writing doesn’t come from regularity and monotony. Great ideas aren’t thrown at you periodically. It’s a flash of a second that you fail to register. One great idea gone just like that, struck by lightening, cold dead feet kissing the wet ground.

The dead man and his whore

 

Fooled myself again did I? This is me filling out a post dinner feedback form.I do not like the shaping up of things at times. Two years ago, even though I was sentimentally whacked up at least I knew who I was. Here adding to the identity crisis is my existential crisis.
But I have been writing really. Writing out fliers and write ups for a club that has pretty much over sensationalized every grain of belief that i had once looked forward to as inspiration.
I mutter words like passion, creativity and out of the box thinking like they were mechanically drilled into some forlorn human heart. The misery, however, is due to the fact that the more I write it and the more I say it, the less I seem to believe in it. 
But these such absolute misery would entitle me to say..Fuck mechanics..and Fuck the fliers..I will write and eat and drink and love. 
I would have my say, though seemingly unheard..just like the dead man would have his whore.


xoxoxoxo