Tag: creativewriting

Wasted most of my evening time watching stupid films on television. Now, lying awake deep in the hollow pit of this night. Alone and weak and faltering like a soldier with three arrows through his chest and one through his ass. I lay down like a corpse in the coffin that is my bed. I watch through the window. It was a moonful night few hours ago. And now, nothing. Only grim darkness. My room is growing colder and colder with each passing hour. I cannot help but wonder if this is the end. I cannot help but wonder. I might be ahead in time than you but it doesn’t matter. I ate as much as I needed to, probably more, and I read as much as I could, but I get this feeling that something that I could have done today still remains to be done. I do not know what that something is. Maybe I do not care much about that. Maybe my ass just needs some beating. I need to get my brain dry cleaned.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

Another day. Who would have thought. But it’s here. It’s always here. It’s spreading its eagle wings, opening its dinosaur mouth. It’s going to devour me today, just like it did yesterday. I am tired and weak and there’s something in me which is incurable. I write my blogs inside locked bathroom, on the toilet seat, on the wet bathroom floor. I write on my cellphone because I have got time for nothing. It’s not like I got anything to do. It’s just the way I am. Just the way I am. And it’s fine. It’s not that bad. I brush my teeth in the morning. Isn’t that enough doing for a day, when all days are just the same? I know there’s an escape and it’s not some poison or hanging by a cloth. I know that there’s a painless escape, a one-way route, the only route to true freedom, to salvation. Salvation? What the hell am I writing about. I get distracted sometimes. What salvation? I can hardly boil rice. I can hardly cut my fingernails. There’s no salvation for me. There’s nothing for me. Just these words and these sentences that I am trying to make. I am a clown. I am the saddest clown on this planet. I am one of a kind. Headache again. I will torture myself later. Now, I better take a shower.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

Listening to crap hip-hop songs. Another half day gone. Nothing written. Bring me an axe, I would like to have my head chopped away. How loathsome can one man be? When I sit down and think about it, I begin to find some answer in myself. I want to shoot myself at the very back of my throat. How about you bring me a gun and I teach you how to load it? How stubborn can one man be? How utterly stupid! Winter is gone. Absolutely gone. You cannot find it anywhere around here. You can try. It will bring you only disappointment. Winter is gone and it has flown with dragon wings out of my world. Drank some sweet water some time back. The doctor said it would solve the problem of dehydration. I want to sit on his neck and bite into his windpipe until he begins to speak truth to me. But really, who am I expecting truth from? And what truth? HAAAHHHH. We all are gnawing at the same piece of stale bread, drinking the same poison. I wonder if I will ever start writing. The chances are slim. I would love to die in sleep. Alas, sleep only raises my blood pressure and does nothing worse. What a loser. What a shameless loser. Nobody is going to read you. You are going to rot under the pile of your own unread books. You think you are some bigshot? You think you are so cool? You are nobody. Your writing is bullshit. Your books are pathetic. PATHETIC! How come you are still standing here. How come you are still writing. Have you got any sense in your stupid head. Who are you writing for. There’s nobody. You can scream all you want. You can have your eyeballs exploded with bombs. Nobody is coming for you, for your words, your sentences, your books. You will go down. But before that, let’s drink lemonade. It’s just too hot.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

I couldn’t write much in the last two days. I was reading Bukowski and listening to some shit music. My legs are better now. Atleast I won’t die from their aching. Yesterday night, I realised that I am not writing as much as I need to write every day. I need to be disciplined, otherwise I am not going to make it. There’s no way. There’s no alternative to it. My mind wanders to places, and there’s a story running in my head since a week. I need to write it down today. I need to write it down otherwise it will die a lonely death inside my head. I want to give it a better death. But before anything else, I need to take a walk in the sunlight. The damned virus has made me weak to some extent. I need to get back in the game. I need my horsespeed back. And I need some way to ward off this recurring feeling of hunger. Can I be left to starve for half a day? I loathe my wellwishers because they are going to kill me by keeping me alive in the most dead of the ways. If I leave everything on them and I do as they say, then it’s better I drink the toilet cleaner now and overdose on it. A comatose of 5 years wouldn’t be that bad Total blankness. And after that, I rise like a bad jesus, with an ache in my head and the baton of unemployment stuck deep in my asshole. I will scream and I will go mad and that life will be far more interesting than this one.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

A mother running with her girl on the dry evening grass. Two lovers busy in their cellphones. I look around, click a few pictures and stamp them on the ass of this blue world. A signboard says dogs are not allowed. Thank god! And then I see a man with a dog walking through that signboard. He won’t be fined. It’s just a signboard. Nobody looks at it. I guess I am the first one to look at it. I look somewhere else. A man standing in the balcony of a flat under construction. What’s he doing there? And then another question comes to my mind. What am I doing here? I am just taking a walk. I was born only yesterday. I do a few pushups – 10 in all. I bend my legs at the knees as I listen to some jazz vibrations. I walk another step, take another breath.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

He is cleaning his gods’ faces, brushing their teeth. He is washing his hands. He is a man devoted to the useless. He is old and still caged. He is roaming around, calling random people and talking crap. An hour ago, he ordered a dead animal. It should arrive around midday. He is sitting in the toilet, filling the bucket and then emptying it in his throat. He is turning the knob, locking the door, disappearing. He is spitting in the ocean. He is burying the birds under his red carpet. His brain is working but it doesn’t matter. He has lost it. He lost it long ago when he began thinking that he was right in everything. Nobody is right in anything. We do what we do.

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Staring at the ceiling. The fan whirling. Sunlight painting the curtains in red. Red blinking on the digital clock that hangs beside the toilet. Listening to an old voice. Listening to no voice. Listening. My fingers are all bent, like I am transforming into a new creature. But I am not. Looking at the cold red blanket covering my legs, my cock, my waist. Listening again to an old voice. Nothing painful, just the usual blabbering. Nothing serious. Nothing. Feeling my legs heavy. It’s because of the walk I took this morning. Listening to the pressure cooker whistle. Again. Again. And again. One more time. It keeps whistling. I lose track of count. Something so stubborn must be boiling inside. Time doesn’t exist when I write. Everything is here and forever. Nothing dies.

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Yawning in my chair like a rattlesnake. I still haven’t gone for a walk. Maybe tomorrow morning. But that’s light years away. Dave Brubeck playing some cool jazz for me. It won’t rain tonight. I keep the television on mute. It’s always some bullshit playing. Same bullshit playing every day. Something like an engine running in the neighborhood. Always at this time of the night. What the hell. Somebody shoot that man and sell his liver. I feel like I haven’t slept in ages. But I slept only yesterday. Thinking of jumping into the bed and crawling on top of you and we kiss and hug and write stupid shit together for some time.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.