Like a pig I slept. It’s 12:46 noon now and I think I didn’t get enough sleep. I fell asleep some time after 2:30 in the morning. I usually fall asleep around midnight. Yesterday night, something kept me busy.
12:48 noon. Im sitting on the toilet seat, wondering where to go next from here. I’d rather sleep a bit more but I shouldn’t. Hunger pangs in my stomach. I should take a shower, get dressed and go out.
12:53 noon. Nothing else makes me happier than taking a proper sh*t in the morning without much struggle. Sometimes when you take a huge dump, you start feeling somewhat dizzy in your head. Strange!
12:55 noon. Listening to Memora by Gesafflstein. He is an amazing artist. I admire his music and come back to it from time to time.
12:58. Time to exercise a bit, not much. These muscles need some movement. Lower back is hurting as usual. Feels incurable. I hope it isn’t.
I am back here after almost two years. I was active on Instagram. I think Instagram sucks for writers. There isn’t much engagement between readers and writers. I do appreciate the photography community of Instagram.
I haven’t written much in the past two years during which time I was away from this space. Had I not left this space completely and forgotten about it, I know I’d have written much much more.
Anyways, I’m glad to be back here. I’ve always loved this space. On here, I feel free in writing and sharing whatever I want to. I do not care even if nobody reads. Luckily, I’ve always found a reader.
I would like to thank all my fellow readers and bloggers who are still connected to my blog. You motivate me in keeping going.
I’d try to be regular on here from now onwards. I’m also thinking of making some changes to this website with regard to its looks and design. I’ll see what I can do about it. Please feel free to drop in any suggestions/ideas.
A major part of today was spent thinking about how to be my own boss. A major part of yesterday was spent thinking about how to be my own boss. But what does it mean to be one’s own boss.
As I sit and think more about what it actually means, my mind wanders in more than one direction. For some, being one’s own boss means not doing a salaried job. For some, being one’s own boss means being able to do a certain job in one’s own way or with minimal outside intervention.
For me, being my own boss means being able to work day and night and build my own empire in my own way and in the process, generating enough wealth for a decent living without being dependent on a salaried job in any way.
Yeah. There. I said it in the best lines that I can. In a way, I’ve always been my own boss because I’ve always approached a task or a problem in my own way. I hardly ever run to anyone else for help, not because I would feel small, but because, most of the time, I do not feel the need to go to anyone for help. I figure out my problems in my own ways.
So lately, I’m back to burning the midnight oil. Despite hardships, some things must be done. Isn’t it so? I suppose it’s my time of doing things. It’s time to push into a new direction for a renewed growth.
I’m glad that apart from this dim lamp on my humble table in my midnight room, I’ve got these crunchy sunflower seeds to chew on as I think and act and dissect my bygone days and minutes and seasons. Munching on these sunflower seeds along with listening to some slow classical music sends me in this drowsy state in which the possibility of creating something increases tenfolds. Here’s the link to the seeds I recently bought if you wanna check out!
Now, it’s 00:18 hours. The whole town seems to be asleep except the few mad ones. And look at me. I have slept for only three hours in the last 36 hours. My eyes are half shut. But I keep munching on these seeds and I keep listening to Chopin. Not every night is like this night. Why isn’t every night like this night. To be frank, I am glad that it isn’t.
– Tomic
Leaving here this marvellous piece of music by Chopin –
Been away for a long time. A while ago, I was sitting with this friend of mine in his shop’s backroom. We were talking about how something must be done soon. About what, we couldn’t say. But something must be done. That much is clear. It is as if everything has come to a standstill. It is as if we are alive but we do not feel so. Something, hence, must be done to feel alive.
But what. Should we start a new business. Should we make a youtube channel like many others. Should we make an instagram travel account. Should we start vlogging. The thing is that it isn’t enough to start something. The question is why start anything at all. What is compelling us to take on something new. Maybe because we are capable of doing far more that what we are currently doing.
Our conversation was cut short by the arrival of a third man, a nuisance, a menace to the society in general. At that point, we stopped talking. We let the third man talk. He was angry at something. About what, I didn’t wish to know. A million things anger me, but it’s not anyone’s business. Only mine.
Soon, the third man left. Our conversation couldn’t resume immediately upon his leaving. Something about that space had changed. Maybe our moods changed. Maybe we were too exhausted from the routine that we were unable to talk further.
Soon, the clock struck 9 o’clock. We got up, walked out of the shop, locked it behind us and we drove back to our homes as quietly as we could.
Here’s another herd of sheep. They’re looking at each other’s faces. They are all seemingly lost. They don’t seem to figure out where to put their next step. They’re afraid. They think somebody’s out here to kill them. They are the crazy anxious lot. They think anxiety is a part of their personal. They are convinced that’s how it is. They think that every man or woman is anxious. They’ve been shouting at the too of their lungs for no reason. Is it anxiety or old age? It could be old age as well. I had always thought that with age man became quieter and wiser. Looking at these crazy anxious people, I’m convinced it isn’t so.
I never wanted to be a better writer. I just wanted to write well. Isn’t that enough? To write well? To tell in simple, clear sentences what you wish to tell? But what do I wish to tell? I haven’t always been very clear about it. It’s just that there’s always something more to tell.
t’s a rainy day. Sun will be seen rarely in the days to come. Raindrops will hang down the window panes all day long. Spiders will repopulate themselves. An eerie smell of decay will be filling my room very very soon. Wet dirt will be all over the floors of my entire home. I will be lazier than ever, doing nothing all day, just laying down somewhere on the floor or on the couch. The rain has stopped for a moment. The sweet noise of rain falling is gone for a while. It seemed like a necessary noise. Without it, everything else sounds awful.
It’s night now. It rained pretty much whole day. The evening was spent meeting a stranger. The truth about money is that almost everybody is in dire need of it. Now, laying down on the couch, yawning, listening to a song, thinking about all the talks done and not done this evening, yawning again and again. One more time. My room is cold. I’ve got nothing more to talk about right now. However much we talk, we fail to communicate often.
Started writing journal some time in last September. Almost a year has passed since then. There is so much in the journal now. So much. Most of it won’t make sense to anyone who reads. So much is in there, and none of it would make any sense to anyone. Think about it. So many pages. So many words. So many paragraphs all written by one man in innumerable moods, innumerable positions, innumerable seasons. Looking at it gives me a strange sense of happiness. Surely I cannot go through reading it all again myself unless exclusively for the purpose of editing it someday. I never read my own stuff unless it is to edit. My lines are for the world to soak in. I write and then I move on and write some more.
After two failures in publishing book, I sometimes ask myself, how many more failures will come in my way. But I ask that only to myself and that too only sometimes. It’s not a hard question to put before someone else, but no they probably won’t understand.
The failure isn’t that I haven’t published. Only I couldn’t make the sale that I was expecting. I can tell myself that it was never about the money. But then, I would be fooling myself. Somewhere, it is about the money. It is about the money because all I want to live on is writing. Wish I understood the significance of money earlier. I would have participated more actively in my own endeavours.
As I write and write, I also look at what is selling these days the most. It’s mostly trash. Trash poetry. Trash YA books. Trash fantasy novels. Trash motivational books. Realism is dead. Brutality is dead. Rawness of the writing tied upside down and screwed like a pig. Their books are made of feathers and foam. Sleep on them and throw them in the bin the next hour.
But they make a selling. Well, people are the kings. They elect their oppressors, and trash is what they want to read.
I cater to a small group of readers. The mad, insane ones. The leftovers. The outlaws. The wicked. The ones who are beyond the law itself.
I can never write what sells. I write what I write. I cannot write like they do, but then, they too cannot write like I do. We can never meet in a common space. That’s a bitter truth and a final one.
I had been away from here. Away for two whole months. Work kept me away. Also, the writing itself kept me away from here. I have been writing mostly in my journal these days. It’s forty six minutes past midnight as I type these words and prepare to shoot them all at you. Reading Miller now and then. Listening to jazz tonight. Wes Montgomery. Haven’t had a proper meal today. I am remembering that only now. What the hell was I doing all day.
Finished writing almost 130 pages in the last four months. 270 more to go, and then I can start editing. It’s a long journey and one that’s possible. It’s going to be my first book of pure prose.
Rest all is fine. Lost my domain, but now it’s back and up and running fine. I will be posting here much more regularly now. Looking forward to catching up with everyone’s posts here.
The buzzing electric saw caught my senses. I was sitting by the window, as usual. The curtains were closed. Nothing much outside to look at during the day. Also, it was just too hot. So hot, the sunlight would roast your skin immediately. I pushed aside the curtain to look outside. Who is that motherfucker running an electric saw at this hour? Hasn’t he got anything else to do? Why is he carrying out his bullshit here? Who is he? Let’s look out of the window and try to find out. Where is that motherfucker? Let’s look a little further. The fucker is nowhere to be seen. Why am I having an erection right now? Oh it’s you. It’s you, spreading your legs in my thoughts, kissing my tongue, kissing my cock, driving me mad. It’s you and I am growing for you. I forgot about the electric saw.
I took a shower and then we made love again. The electric saw was gone. Now, there was a hammer falling on a nail and it kept falling as we kissed and I climbed on top of you and licked your neck and ate your lips and we ate each other and at one time, the hammering outside stopped – at what time I couldn’t tell.
It’s evening and I am walking with a bulge in my shorts. We are making love again and my cock is leaking under your panties. Your ass in my lap, my hands inside your dress, your mouth inside mine and my tongue touching yours and we are kissing and kissing and hugging and kissing and hugging and hugging and kissing and kissing and there’s no end and I am wet and full of you.
It’s night. You are back to reading Orwell. I am thinking about you, about all the kissing and all the hugging. I am thinking about everything. You read a little and then we are kissing again.
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