Breaking Fad

We’ve all been there; transfixed by the glare of a screen, hungering for response.

In Transit / Indian Railways

This platform is loaded with people traversing between realities.

Here is where worlds converge, fornicate and give birth to ugly and beautiful offsprings.

S/M Adventure

Once upon a time, you existed. As a tangible being.

Intoxicated me with your silk; weaving me onto your cocoon.

I curled up cozily on that sweet bosom of yours; or spent nights dreaming.

And we bit each other off.

The end ?

The Fee Faw Movement

So it was said that the first anyone saw of him was on a dark, windy night. He wore a thin vest, a khaki lungi and a green chappal, they tell me. The moon rose above, crested and exuded a magical brilliance that you normally associate with fairy tales. The tufts of smoke we exhaled gave us this vision of a green, slender martian manhunter instead of another normal retard. 

On seeing him advancing towards us, somebody cried out ‘Fuck! We are screwed!’ and started breathing fast. His breaths kept picking up tempo as the manhunter kept coming towards us. My hands started waving frantically at him. You know, the We're-Not-stoned-Just-another-regular-bunch-of-guys-exhaling-smoke deal. After a moment or so, I realised I was no longer in control of my hands. It kept waving. No shit. No amount of concentration or thought could provoke my hands to stop the deed and retreat to its den. A being all on its own, consuming the food I eat, the drink I drink. Thankless. I still remember tears rolling down my cheeks; not sure which it was for; the impending death at the hands of a green monster or the hand coming off my shoulders.

At this point of time, I stop his narration and ask for a pee-break. As I walk down the corridor I’ve gotten used to in the space of a month, I start noticing things. Speckles on walls; brown, soaked rust; wings of insects who lost their lives trying to reach the light; voices – clear and muffled, petty and focused; faces that grin and wave, gauging the sobriety . I clutch a pillar and slowly recede to the dark recess of the brain.

I

Money - Good food.

People - Time and place. Mostly.

The Plan - Never-ending stream of activity focused at achieving an impossible goal.

Now - Belch

Dope Hope

Nights are grenades,
Wishes are folklores,
My ass is full of weed and;
I need someone to claw beneath.

A Monochrome Dragon

In a dim-lit alley, waiting for a piece of flesh. That overpowering greed drove him all the way here; that insatiable hunger for crimson skins, moist breaths and sport. Away from his palace of stacked-away typewriters and buzzing bees. His cigarette fumes breathe in the crisp night air and vanish. His heart beats ever so slow, each dull thud is a painful reminder of his desperation. Shrugs those petite, unkempt wings.

The prey, white by light, glides wistfully through the poisonous mists. Her eyes, lifeless, gaze at his shallow heart.

Doomed are we who set sight on the magnificient, doomed are we whose hearts yearn for a better tomorrow. The eddy pools stir and crackle upon his weight. His eyes glow bright in the dark and the face contorts. With each advancing step, he is reminded of the path that brought him here; the four days of isolation, years of conforming; and a moment's madness. The empathy he once placed for the beings around him is replaced by that never-quenching thirst for consumption.

The uneasy sense of calm is broken by the flipping of a coin. She waits for it to land safely on her pouch. The food is here.

People Places Animals Things

What is it that anybody has to say?

Tales of misfortunes or triumphs?

Rogue dreams?

Plights, sounds and sights ?

Or musings ?

Remembering S & P

We are attempting to resurrect a dreamy and drunk artist here. One for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness. This silent turmoil dims his intellect and dampens his heart, usurping the place reserved for great joy and sadness. At times, it seemed that one of the two spirits within him had, in the end, emerged victorious, leaving the other behind, and that he'd finally forgotten that silent and loveless aspect of himself.

The unexpected appearance of a woman at an open window, silences, thought and patience. 

The forgotten parable

Insignificant movements of the fingers are the order of the day.

Trudging on the path that was, is and will probably be;

The path.

Refinement; the atonement that will never be.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd

Routinely selfish little worlds of meaningless victories over other people's seemingly

detrimental achievements.

Would we be happier to live life not remembering how many of the things we gave up hope on ?