Today. Did’t really write much. Didn’t write much but thought about a lot of poems that I could have written. Headache killed a major part of the day. Killed my mood. Kept me away from my desk and my chair until late evening. It has stopped raining now. Everything wet outside. The tree leaves. The roads. The iron gate to my house. My motorcycle. Wires swinging between the electric poles. Men and women who couldn’t reach home on time. Everything.
This place is devoid of writers, artists, any human with a spark. Here, people just exist and then the die. Rarely, something moves them. No books in their homes. No paintings hanging on their walls. No cassette players or MP3 players or gramophones or records or even a pair of goddamn speakers in their houses. If you ever go to somebody’s house, all you can hope for is a nice cup of tea. But that doesn’t mean that you will get it. You can grab your balls or squeeze your breasts or do whatever with whatever you got while the tea is cooking for you but nothing can guarantee that the cup of tea that you get would be a really nice cup of tea. And no coffee. Absolutely no coffee. You cannot even hope for a cup of coffee. They don’t even know what coffee is. If you tell them, they will run behind you with bats and beat you to death. Coffee is like sin to them. And god knows how much they are afraid of committing sins.
I don’t visit anybody. I never socialize. I can go months, even years without feeling the need to open my mouth and talk to somebody. I listen to music and I write and I read and I masturbate and that’s pretty much it.
Ding Dong. Ding Dong. Somebody’s here. I hope their stay is short and I am back in my chair before long.
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2 thoughts on “Another day killed.”
“If you ever go to somebody’s house, all you can hope for is a nice cup of tea. But that doesn’t mean that you will get it” – absolutely right!
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Haha thanks! Glad you could relate.