Tag: creativewriting

I am not failing enough. That is the problem. The problem is just that. The fucking problem. It’s like I’ve come to a halt. I cannot believe how I have come to this. But then, there’s nothing to believe in it. It’s a fact that I’ve stopped functioning altogether. I am just a rotten vegetable now. Useless. And on top of everything, this headache from long hours of sleep, long hours of work, long hours of sitting before some screen and breaking my eyes. This headache at the back of my head, bottom right. It’s like somebody came and stuffed that part of my head with immense pain while I was asleep last night. And as I ponder over this problem of mine, I come face to face with a lot more. A lot lot more. It’s all so overwhelming. Suddenly I am drowning in, getting sucked in, getting ripped apart. I cannot seem to think of a music that goes well with this agonising state of mine. Maybe I will find it before the day ends. It has only begun. There’s so much to be done. What have I done. Not a thing. What have I written down. Not a word. What have I given back to this world. A big zero.

For now, time to eat.

Tomic Riter. © All rights reserved.

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Can’t blame the world for what I have become. It’s all my own doing. I am no victim of the circumstances. Fuck circumstances. I am all that I did. And what all did I do. A hell lot of shit. But I am no victim. I am good as I am. Of course, I’ve had many bad days. Many many many bad days, to be frank. They ain’t ever over. Today was just another bad day. But so what. There’s a life to live and shit to do. Whatever happens, there’s breath that needs to be taken. Sometimes, I am this close to losing my shit. Right in that moment, I look down or I look some other way and take a deep breath. And I tell myself, ‘This ain’t worth shit.’ I tell myself that they are just another bunch of deluded folks and they come and go. I’ve been sick. I’ve been sick as hell and it doesn’t matter. How I wish these were my last days. How gloriously I’ve brought myself amidst all of this. Tell me all of this is true and none of it is lies, and I shall spread my lies somewhere else. In the beginning was a word, ‘BITCH!.’

In the end will be two words, ‘SUCK THIS!’ and then someone will come and pour mud over our dead bodies and say three words of his own.

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Been writing in this journal of mine since last one year. It has been one fucking hell of a journey. 213 pages of blood and tears and all things raw. This journal will form the basis of my first work of prose. Earlier, I thought I would just publish my journal as it is – of course, with the much needed editing. Now, I am not so sure. There’s so much stuff in this journal that shouldn’t meet the eyes of the world directly. Nothing is final yet. I’ve been doing some thinking around the idea now and then. Also, been give some time to learning the craft of good storytelling. Of course, to better writing, one needs to do more and more writing. There’s no way around it.

About journaling, it has been an awesome experience. I didn’t know a year ago that I could write so much shit. It has definitely helped me to get into the habit of writing every single day. Of course, there were many days when I didn’t write at all. There were weeks, even months when I didn’t write down a single line of anything. Things have gotten better over time when it comes to writing – in fact, things have gotten better only in writing. All else is going to shit like always. Whenever I close my eyes, I visualise the punches of the world right on my face hitting me down, and then a long cold shower, the cold water drops hitting at the same places, sending my way more pain, and surprisingly, some relief.

Enough of this shit. Today is Sunday and October is coming. Days will be sunnier. I do not care about the sun that much. All I need is a lot less rain. I am tired of this rain that’s raining all the time. It has fucked my head to some extent. In October, I am getting out there again and more often. There will be more travelling and more experiences. About writing, well, there’s always stuff to write. There will always be.

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Hammer upon hammer. Nail upon nail. All this pent up rage will burst some day. Upon whom, upon what, I cannot say. Every minute hurts. Every hour lived is just so absurd. There is so much to do, and what am I doing. And why am I doing it. These aren’t questions meant to be answered. The answer is known. The point of raising such questions again and again and again is this – when the fuck will I fucking wake up. I hate when people begin to sympathise for whatever reasons. Are you ok? Are you alright? Are you sick? I don’t give a shit because answering those questions doesn’t make any difference to my state of being. If it did, I would definitely give a shit. People ask all kinds of stuff out of compulsions. Fucking bastards and their fucked up compulsions. For now, as the clock closes in on midnight, I badly want to pick up a fight. A good fight. A blood and bones kind of fight. A fight of mad punches and kicks. A fight just for the sake of fighting. A hell of a fucking good fight. I’ve been intact for long. I’ve been a worthless purposeless consumer for so long. It’s time I explode.

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Slowly, the reservoir breaks. Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink. Slowly, the river gets heavier and heavier. It has become so heavy, it needs to spit out. Slowly, the river enters our cities. It’s early morning and we are not ready to drown. It’s late at night and we are not ready to drown. It’s a sunny day and we are definitely not ready to drown. Slowly, everything gets washed away. Mine. Yours. Everyone’s. The river tickles our bare feet and swallows our children. The river makes the elderly laugh as it carries them away. The river and its mud everywhere. The river and its killing froth. Thank the devil because the river hasn’t a soul of its own, else it would have climbed inside our homes, ripped them apart and killed each one of us.

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There’s hell on either side. There’s hell within and outside. There’s hell on these roads. There’s hell swimming in these rivers. There’s hell getting sold in the supermarkets. There’s hell in their silences and in their talks. There’s hell in what they never say to anyone. There’s hell on their tongues and in their acts. There’s hell in their truths and lies. There’s hell from morning till night. There’s hell for three days straight. There’s hell from 10 till 5. Sometimes, there’s hell longer than a week, sometimes as long as a lifetime. There’s hell after you close your eyes and there’s hell after you open them. There’s definitely some hell in all this sadness. There’s an awful lot of hell in this fucked up place. But more important than anything else – there is hell, and there is one for each one of us.

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One man after another. One phone call after another. One file after another. One document after another. One signature after another. One hour after another. One minute after another. One complaint after another. One explanation after another. One meeting after another. One message after another. One voice after another. One bullshit talk after another. One request after another. One order after another. One abuse after another. One punch after another. One in the stomach. One on the head. One or two on the neck. However much I do, it amounts to fucking nothing. So I might as well go home early and have my time and my evening and my night. My night. My night. It isn’t far from here and now.

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Something doesn’t feel right on the days I am not suffering. Imagine how hard the axe of life would have hit me to want all the sufferings for myself. I sit full of hunger on a Sunday evening. I sit and I want more than just sitting. I want the pleasures of being beaten down. I wish to be brought to tears by something so good and killing. I wish to be nailed on the wall. I wish to be held in chains and shown the truth and the ugliness of utter everyday slaughter. The truth and what is it and what do I know and why do I care anyways. I get hunted everyday. My face and my mind carry their claw marks everyday. I wish that something is done to me so that I am reminded that I am still here. Tomorrow, well, it will be just another day. It will come and it will go and I will be here in this chair of mine after my day long battle and maybe have a drink and maybe write some more shit that doesn’t fucking matter. I will be here sooner or later and that’s all I will have.

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Why does it feel so heavy in my head these days. Why is there always something that remains to be done. Why can’t this coffee be a bit more bitter. Why is it that it always rains here, but there never is a rainbow. Why does this city smell of disgust and death and rot. Why do I feel so burdened, as if the entire world rests on top of my head. Why is there never a feeling that I have reached somewhere. Why is the sky here always pale, never blue, never red. Why are the buildings and homes here so colourless. Why is everything here so fucking colourless. Why do I live in black and white. What are these creatures that screech all night. Why doesn’t the world just give me a fucking break.

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The day began on an alright note. For a moment, I thought this is it. No more bad days. Shit is behind me. But then, shit turned upside down in no time. Shit turned on me even before noon. All this makes me wonder – have I grown totally senseless? Can I feel anything at all anymore? Am I so wrong? Have I do something so wrong that I have to see this shit? The answer is that I do not care. I have done an awful lot of stuff, and I don’t regret shit. I can look into anyone’s eyes and tell them straight – I did this shit. I did this fucking shit. I did what I had to in that moment, and nobody, and I mean nobody can really step in my shoes and say – well, there was a better way to do it. Empathy, sympathy it’s all a farce. An unconscious response. Even the ones who say they understand, they were not there. All their understandings are just an appropriation. There never was a better way to take. There was just one way – the one that was taken. All else are just fantasies of a flaky mind.

Outside, raining like a bitch once again. This city is full of filth. I am rightfully here. Now, light my cigarette and sing me a song and let me rot gracefully in my hell.

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