Tomic Riter

Tag: creativewriting

  • It is time and time it is.

    Almost missed sunset. Now, time to drink Budweiser. Time to spend my evening and my night in my way. Time to forget mother and father and friends and brothers and sisters and servants and landlords and caretakers. Time to tear open the sack of chaos. Time for music and drinks and Van Gogh and Murakami and nothing else. Love can go to hell. Friendship can go to hell. Work can go to hell. Everything else, well, is already in hell.Time to sit back in my chair and wait for the end of the world, hoping it’s tonight. Time to fill my room with smoke as I take another sip. Time to forget the wounds in my leg and at the center of my chest. Time to keep my legs on the bed and my heart in my grave and take another long drag of cigarette. Time to forget the doorbell and the dinner. Time to forget hot black coffee because tonight, I’ve got chilled beer stacked in my fridge. Time to listen to the same song aloud and on repeat until my head begins to fall apart. Time to take another sip of cold beer and watch the night enter through the open window and spill its rain-filled blood on my pillow. Time to forget about the goddamn poetry and the goddamn poets because nobody gives a shit anyways.

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  • Or maybe I am just talking shit again.

    Life is a labyrinth. Sometimes, it’s just too clouded inside the goddamn head. The goddamn head. The questions are many, the answers nowhere to be found. Maybe life is just about asking more questions. Maybe life is about wanting to find answers and never about really finding answers. Maybe life is about sitting somewhere and watching everywhere and wondering all the time about all the things watched and not watched and felt and not felt. Maybe I fell down on the wrong planet. Maybe I popped up in the wrong universe. But as far as I have seen myself and known myself, nothing with a person like me can always go completely alright. There will always be something missing, some kind of unrest within, something that’s completely out of order. As I sit in my chair, the smell of antiseptic spilled on the floor filling my nose, the June sunlight trying to break through the steel layer of dark clouds, the wounds in my leg turning black from red, Dylan singing and Townes singing and Dave singing and the great Mary of Jesus singing, all singing all through the morning. Not anything to eat but a lot of good music to listen to. It’s always like that. Always. Maybe life is about listening music all day and night and one day, falling dead. Maybe life is about earning just enough money and working only so much to earn the money that would be enough, and devoting the rest of your time to something where your passion lies. Maybe life is about going through all and feeling all kinds of feelings and dreaming and forgetting and remaining here in the now and remaining as stable as one can even in the face of total destruction.

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  • Another and all the same.

    Resumed reading Van Gogh’s letters. Met with another accident last night. Second accident in one month, second of my life. Truth is a bitch that’s always around. Truth is your shadow. Blood has stopped flowing. Wounds have been kept hidden, just like last time. Everything is like the last time, only this time, I got too drunk and drove too fast and I was pissed off with my job for some reason and I rammed my bike into another in front but it all happened too late at night, too late, and I saw the blood only after I reached home and felt something burning around my right knee. It’s a big wound, perfect circle, big red circle, all the hair from there gone, gone, gone with the skin. My right toe has rotten from accidents. The headache is back like a motherfucker. Everything is repeating itself. Time to break the cycle.

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  • Same old shit coming around.

    Had been away from my desk. Had been on the roof for three whole evenings and quarter nights. It wasn’t like I had anything important to do on the roof. I was just staring at the sky and feeling utterly cold out there and walking round and round in that little space and drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. I guess I was just tired of sitting at my desk. My roof is the only other space in my entire house where I can be found if I am not at my desk. Both places are equally sacred and equally damned for me. No hunger is felt until it’s close to midnight. No hunger all through the evening and afternoon. I am a beast poorly fed. I am a beast and I am confused about a whole lot of shit. Yesterday, drank too much again but the headache this morning wasn’t as severe as it was the last time I got drunk.Should I feel happy about it? How long before I stop writing about drinking and smoking and move on to other things. I really cannot say. For that, I cannot give you at date or a day or even a year. Hell, I cannot give that even to myself. I am so damned and out of my head all the time. Nothing electric happened today. What a goddamn waste of time. What a goddamn waste. Tomorrow might be a big day for someone, a frightening day for someone else. For me, it’s would be just another day with the same old shit coming around in new clothes.

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  • No need to go anywhere.

    nobody waiting for me
I light a cigarette whenever I want to
drink a beer whenever I want to
go wherever I want to whenever I want to
I have been with me for too long
I have been with me since the beginning
outside some shit going on
always some shit going on outside
what have I got to do with any of it
I am alright inside my little cave
no need to step out until morning
no need to go anywhere
just sit in my chair, and sometimes,
catch baby lizards and throw them out
the fan keeps whirling
stomped a moth with my ankle
it might rain again
more moths will come
nothing unusual
soon midnight
and then, yesterday.

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  • Such a place does exist.

    9 in the morning. Now, 12 noon. Took me two hours to write down a sentence. Windy outside. It hardly rains here. It rains for maybe 15 days in a whole year. Yeah, just 15 days of rain. Four years ago, it never user to rain here. Many died due to lack of livelihood or just lack of food or water. But I wasn’t here four years ago. I arrived here two and half years back. Life here is really slow. Nothing much going on. An annual festival used to happen here. Now even that has be scrapped off. In that festival, you could actually see people, so many people, otherwise you would never know so many live here. Strange place. No cinema halls, no great pubs or bars, definitely no nightclubs, no parks or museums or palaces, no libraries, no beaches or oceans or seas, no deserts, no shopping malls, no cafes, no universities. By now, you must be thinking that I am telling lies. You must be thinking, ‘How can such a place exist?’ Such a place does exist and I live in such a place. It’s a dry stretch of land far far away from all the cities and towns. You need some real balls to reach here. Moreover, you need real balls to live here. Many who end up here run away within a few months. It can get really lonely around here. For somebody who isn’t into any kind of art, this place might even drive him/her to suicide.

    You see, art can really save somebody. It has that potential. The possibility of death is always there, but so is the possibility of living. I think art can open the possibility to both. Art can make you so alive, you are ready to die any moment. I think that’s all we are trying to do to ourselves – elevating ourselves to a point where we can feel a sense of total freedom, absolute liveliness. I think wherever that point of total freedom lies, death isn’t far from there. I think death and freedom are intertwined in some way. I think birth is a cage, this body a cage, these eyes, this voice, these ears, dreams, all a cage, and freedom won’t really come from the ways of the mind.

    1 o’ clock noon. Still quite windy outside. Clouds gathering. It might rains again around 4. These days, it rains around 4 everyday. That’s it for now. Have a great time wherever you are.

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  • 40 Minutes to 20 Minutes.

    40 minutes. That’s all I have got today. 40 minutes of trash writing. What follows those 40 minutes, I have no idea. I think I will fall dead under a mountain. At least that’s the image I have in my head right now. Me drunk and dead under a mountain. Please do not read further. I have no idea what I am talking about. It’s the devil’s hands on the keys and tonight, he will be writing for all of you. Tonight I am on a holiday. I have given the keys to my home to that devil. Tonight I am barefoot on the road with just a glassful in my hands. Tonight I am done with this world and its people. Shit. I was wrong. I have got only 20 minutes. Shit shit shit shit shit. I am kind of falling, and this kind of falling one has to bear alone. A falling more psychological than physical in nature. Shit. I guess that’s it for now. Tonight, another date with Vincent’s letters, that is if I remain alive until then. Vincent, you motherfucker.

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  • Vincent Van Gogh, Letters, Coffee.

    Started reading letters of Vincent Van Gogh yesterday. Vincent has always fascinated me. His name is synonymous to madness. Checked several books on him and finally found the edition by Penguin classics. It looked good enough to start and so I started reading. Continuing to read as I write this. Reading his second letter known to man. It’s another feeling to imagine Van Gogh sitting wherever he sat and writing that letter. It makes me think, can I do the same? Can I write a letter? Maybe I can, but really, who will want to read my letters? And moreover, who would I like to send my letters to? Really, who would I want to send my letters too? And really, who would be waiting for my letters to arrive? Maybe some mad dog on some crooked road waiting for his next shot of adrenaline. Maybe such a dog, yeah, and if not him then nobody else would be waiting. Thinking of making another cup of coffee. This night will be spent like that – Van Gogh, coffee, cigarettes, no dinner probably. I need to change the music on my speakers. Changing now.

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  • Horror talk.

    Dogs barking on dark streets. Men barking from inside their homes, from their porches, women barking day and night. It’s strange, darkness makes men and women and dogs scream, as if the absence of light acknowledges the presence of horror of some kind. But what could that horror be. What could that be. It could be anything for any man or any dog. It could be something trivial or something colossal, and lets forget about the dogs (they aren’t the issue really). And if it’s colossal, then what makes it colossal for that man, because it’s all in the head, right? All in the head, big and small, horror and sweetness. When it gets dark and nothing can be seen, I think the mind wanders off to dire corners and alleyways. I think the horror is somewhere there, somewhere in those places, in that unfamiliarity, in those situations of unclear consequences. I think man has always been afraid of unclear consequences. If a consequence is known, however bad it might be, a man can still prepare for it. Man doesn’t like to leave a situation without answers. That would kill him. It takes something else to go through that. It takes more than the preparation of mind. It takes the strength of the spirit. Cigarettes and alcohol might help on the way to whatever that is, but cigarettes and alcohol aren’t the end in itself, because if they become the end, then the spirit has got nothing left to do but cry for the rest of time.

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  • Blood matter.

    Nothing happened today. Not even a single damn thing. Nothing at all except chasing pointless targets. The targets set by the capitalists. The targets robbing us of of our lives and our time. The targets not letting us sleep. I do not even remember if I masturbated today. Pathetic. Sometimes, life can really kill you. Life and all this living. Living like I am these days. No day or night. Only it’s just too windy all the time, and sometimes it rains and then it gets really cold. Not a bird seen in the morning. No sunsets. No sunrises. No road drives. No beaches or mountains. Just walking to my desk and then at night, walking back home. I am just trying to write something everyday. It might be complete bullshit but then who cares. Nobody reads anyways. Even if somebody does, he might decide to stop reading in no time. My words and my sentences won’t offer any comfort to them. Such are my words and my sentences. My own veins have turned blue writing them. My lips have dried, my wrists have broken. My wounds are healing and soon, new ones will find their way to me. I am never not scarred. Something always comes running after me to hack off my head. I am always in a fight although not each one gets bloody. But each one is no less real. The fight. All fights. The fight to live like I want to live. The only true fight there is. The only revolution that matters to me. My own personal revolution – to go against everybody and come out winning. They won’t acknowledge my win or even my fight or even that I ever fought when within me, I have been fighting each second of my life. I do not want this fight to end up bloody. The sight of blood at the scene would be of no consequence. The blood will dry and it will lose its pigment and even that will be of no consequence. The blood will be gone, hidden below their trampling footsteps and the noise of everyday death. But my fight will keep on in one way or another.

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