Tag: creativewriting

A call from my boss.

‘When are you coming back? You were supposed to come back today…’ he said as soon as I picked up his call.

‘I am never coming back motherfucker. Go to hell’ I thought and then I said, ‘Not this week. Next week maybe…’

For the rest of the day, hideous thoughts kept filling my brain. How to quit my job. How to punch everybody in the face. How to forget that phone call. How to make it out of here alive. How to quit my job and become a full time writer. I even did a google search on that. Imagine the hell I must have been going through. I read an article by some writer on some website. She wrote that it was hard, everything was hard. It was hard for her to quit her day job. I thought about that. Yeah, it could be really hard. She said that in the time that she put in doing her own writing work, she could make enough to earn a decent living. She said that she was earning much more than what she was earning in her shit, demeaning job. She said that she was finally earning what she deserved. Well, that was something worth reading, even if all that was a lie.

Going back to that job, to that desk, to that same old grinding, I knew all that shit was coming back to me one day. I thought I still had time. But that’s the thing about time – you cannot have enough of it. You only have so much. The whole day was spent in quiet, slow suffering. Will I ever be able to make it? Do I still have the choice of saving myself? Is it really that bad or is it bad only inside my head? What am I trying to do here? I am trying to pull myself up. I am neck deep in this goddamn mire and I am trying to dig myself out. At the same time, I am cheating myself. You know why? Because I am really not digging. I am just slipping down every moment. I am just another genius turned scumbag going down.

I need to become a beggar. I have thought about it several times in the past decade. I need to be thrown on the streets. I want none of this money and this job. It’s all horseshit. It’s a distraction. Took a walk in the evening. Forgot to pop in vitamin tablets today. We are all dying, only some more than others. Today, I feel as if I am dying more than anyone else. Unsettling thoughts kept whizzing in my brain during my little walk. What am I walking for? Should I make a plan to write everyday? Oh I need more disciple in writing. I need to be beaten on my fingers. Without that, I am certainly not going to make it. My reckless, lethargic nature will make sure I do not make it. Everything tastes bitter again. Everything. Or maybe it’s just my coffee. Or maybe it’s just my fucking head. Or maybe I am just hungry and waiting for something good to happen.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

Reading another short story by Raymond Carver. It’s funny. It’s about some fat man in a restaurant who keeps on eating, and then he goes home. A lot of fat in there. A lot of fat. And a lot of eating. I laugh and look out of the window. The weather is good. The winds aren’t hot. The sky is clouded. I think it will rain in two days. On television, some Korean movie. They all look alike in the film. HA HA HA. In the climax, the hero ends up in a hospital bed and is shot dead. The heroine cries and runs away with the criminals. Nobody is wearing a mask. Credits follow. Mother enters through the door, remembers god twice, and then leaves through the same door. What craziness.

I was thinking about something. Never mind. Afternoon blowing away quietly. I hardly slept. I was thinking about something. My head hurts now when I try to remember what it was. I feel disgusted. I am staring at this, and now I am staring at that. Afternoons are dead. Afternoons shouldn’t exist. I would like to hop from one evening directly to the next evening. I do not need mornings either. Evening night evening night – that’s all I need. The clock keeps ticking. What can be more absurd than a clock that shows us what doesn’t exist. Time doesn’t exist. It’s just that we are trapped here in these shells we call bodies. Sometimes the shell dies slowly. So we need something to measure how long that shell will live. We created words like year, month, so that we do not lose our minds due to lack of understanding of the truth. The truth is always something else. We hardly pay attention to it. We are interested in the illusions of life. We like to be eaten up by them.

On the road down somewhere, the ambulance sirens are blaring. We keep ignoring the truth. We think that the truth will never hit us. We think that what we feel or know is the truth. It takes less than a minute for all the illusions of life to break away. Less that a minute.

I scratch the back of my head. If they know me, they will only hate me more. It’s better they do not know me and it’s even better they do not know my thoughts. They just won’t get it. They won’t get anything about me. They would go on with their lives like I never existed. I know they would go on like that. They won’t go on in any other way. Another movie on television. This one is a stupid one. The hero is a CIA operative gone nuts, and he has killed many, as usual. He likes to ride on his donkey in the evening. Yeah. Very funny. The villain is another CIA operative, an old man without teeth and bones. He is a real son of a bitch and he says he will kill everybody who gets in his way. Nobody gets in his way and so this son of a bitch is going to live on forever. Good. Good. The heroine dies in the first fifteen minutes. Good for her. She saved her time and energy by not acting throughout this stupid movie. I hope she was well compensated for the early death.

Made myself a large cup of black bitter goddamn coffee. Went for a little walk. Watched the unpainted buildings, the green grass, the security guards guarding those buildings, and came back home. Life as we saw on the streets and on the roads is not coming back any time soon. Another movie. This one has got cars. Pretty cars. Yeah, that’s better than CIA bullshit. I will watch this one until I fall dead.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

Opened a new page. Let’s see what have we got tonight. A packet o biscuits and no dog to feed. A water bottle half empty. A pair of lungs half collapsed. Let’s introduce ourselves gently to the matters of death and life beyond dying. Let’s open our legs and bare our backs to the harsh hunter of this night. It has rained tonight. Nobody drowned. I got wet a little but that’s all. That was my little adventure. And then I returned home. I am weak and loathsome and mad. Let’s pop another vitamin pill and unscrew our limbs. Let’s lie down anywhere and stop breathing. Poems of Bukowski. Poems of Carlos Williams. Songs of Cohen. Stories of Raymond Carver. I read all that in two days. Imagine the state of my mind. I can vomit all day and night and afternoon and evening and not develop a slight headache. Can you believe that, you tongueless frog? Can you? You cancerous froth? Soon I will be gone, and later I will be back. What a feat. What an astounding feat. Pandemonium everywhere. Somebody needs oxygen, Somebody needs a syringe. Somebody needs a bed. Somebody needs a fucking life. GODDAMNIT!

How long before God stops wiping his ass and gets down here. He’s been wiping his ass for so long. He’s been on it since the first big bang. Oh yes, there have been several big bangs. And he emerged like a giant cock from the singularity and then he grew an ass on himself and he started wiping it. He does not care. He is smuggling coke to reckless Harlem. He is supplying women to the damp brothels of Kolkata. He is shaving the heads of his fairies and pushing them in fire. He is the greatest con artist but his tricks are being exposed and they are failing day by day. I myself would have stuffed him in some jute sack and submerged him at the bottom of the Pacific. But I fail to find him. He has run away, again, like a two-faced rat. Let’s forget him and return to my miserable life.

It could have rained a little more tonight. I have been waiting for rain since long. I would love to think about something else, but I fail. I fail repeatedly. I fail like no one else. The sweet voice of mild rain is filling my brain, shutting down my eyes, sending my nose into a frenzy. I better go now. I better go and lock myself in a suitcase. I better cut off my tongue and smash my eyes with some rock. I better go now. I better not write another word. I better not.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.