The trouble with thoughts

That's me. I step under the shower after a hectic day letting the droplets of water dissolve onto my skin while I trace out my life on those sepia tiles. Back. Forth. Right. Left. Turnaround. Never stop going left. Until you smash into a tragic dead end.


The trouble with thoughts. They keep coming back.

A moment

There is this moment, after I wake up and before I am fully awake.. this fuzzy little moment, dazed by the mere possibility of reality. That moment when I can't figure it out. Who? How? Why? Where? When?
Those breathing possibilities of me being anywhere and everywhere.
It is this fleeting moment that I wake up to everyday.

A random day in 1934

Words flow easy when you are angry, done with doing over and over, the same thing I would eventually forget.
Wake up on better days, not hiss at cats, not spill coffee or feelings because it turns out to be a mess anyway.
I scan the traces of my clumsiness - a bruise here, a bruise there. Tripped. Brushed off the broken frame of a door. Hit the the edge of a table. Drunk, yet so sober. So bloody sober.


I lie awake on a badly made bed that wouldn't and couldn't accommodate anything other than myself. Abominable thoughts scarring the entire process of imagination. What should I be thinking about right now? Possibly?
Human race? Dammed Human Race? Art? Cats? Work (that hardly seems like work)? What?


I forgot all that I read, all of a sudden it evaporated through my skin and bones into the mist that surrounded me. Left me pale on a hot sunny day, and I realized it wasn't sunny anymore. I was under a cloud. The cloud let me bask in a gloom of obscurity.


Breathe. I said to myself over and over and over. Until the words walked with me and became a part of me.


These 'maybe's' and 'if only's' that you carry with you around your waist, they clamber on your back, sticking to you like a leech, squeezing the life out of you. The life that told you to go watch a movie and take your girlfriend to dinner.


I would at this juncture want to be reincarnated into the Persian cat I found sprawled outside a magazine store, coming out of which I regretted not having picked up Tate? Why? Why? It was a good price. These were weird people who did weird things without ever having to feel sorry for themselves.


The cat, sprawled on the floor. How adorable are eyes that say to you - Nothing. I feel nothing!


Art scene : A splash of colors, form, shape, dimension, structure, a chromatic excess of bleh, worst of all .. price tags. Like inheriting some vague form of judgement that you were better off without knowing.
The more I found myself looking, the more I realized it wasn't art. Nothing was art and art was nothing. It was just meaning that wasn't undone.Couldn't be undone.

Am I the product of tragedy?

Note : This wasn't written to sound uncanny. This was written with a purpose to shrug off my MBAness for awhile.

One of the foremost things that MBA has taught me was to not care when nobody else cares. A very straightforward and material fact, but skim the surface to dig out the underlying emotion and write them off like underlying assets or worse hedge them.

Yes Miss Austen, as if literature wasn't polluted enough.

The second being the law of ten and the theory of never doing enough ie if you think you've slogged your arse off for five fucking hours straight I bet you I can find you over thirty people who've worked ten times harder than you, in short what you'd do would never be enough. So even 'trying' is a breakneck decision.

And pardon me for sounding very un MBA like but I just can't stop giggling when I hear the words 'cash cow'

In short if it hadn't been for the money, we wouldn't even have been doing it. Except for those bloodsuckers, ego ruminants, bland jays and crap a doodle doo's.

But beat this. I've met plastic faced 23 year olds who tell me that its just something they have to do before getting married. A degree equals bride evaluation criteria and not job evaluation criteria, I am surprised you didn't know.Its like they decided to mortgage their ambitions to nothingness. Well quite frankly my dear, they and not I qualify to be products of tragedy.

The last of my learning's (and I'd try not to be bitter about this one) was to never ever ever ever underestimate bad luck and never ever ever underestimate a terrible opportunity.

With that said and done, its time for me to sing a different tune. She is called the Crack fiction whore. Art whore. Period.

And I need an idea to start flirting with.

I'm off to Kala Ghoda on the 5th.

 And if you wanted to, you could check out this fabulous site.

http://www.anishkapoor.com/index.htm

 

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