Tag: poem

What to drink. What not to drink. What to drink right now. What to drink an hour later. What to drink right before going to sleep. Whom to drink with. What to drink with. What to leave behind. What to drink right now. What to drink right now. What to drink in sleep. What to drink first thing in the morning. What to drink second thing in the morning. What to drink two days later. What do drink when in a hell lot of pain. What to drink. What to drink. What to drink in dreams. What to drink after waking up from a nightmare. What to drink when there’s nothing to drink. What to drink on my death bed. What to drink right before getting hanged from the gallows. What to drink in the electric chair. What to drink while I look out the window all day with nowhere to go. What to drink in the middle of a road trip. What to drink in the open fields. What to drink while listening to the classic blues. What to drink right after they throw me out of heaven. What to drink while I’m on my way to hell. And finally, what to drink in this new eternal life in hell. What to drink while I am sitting. What to drink while I walk. What to drink while I write. What to drink after I’ve stopped writing a solid paragraph.

– Tomic Riter. © All rights reserved.

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It’s hard for an artist not to think of success. Without envisioning success far down the line somewhere, he might not even begin to act upon his visions and dreams. Sitting in this cafe at 7 in the evening after a tiring day at work, what makes me think, out of nowhere, about the success of an artist? Maybe, somewhere within myself, I have this want to be an artist, and a successful one at that. But what is success for an artist? A better question would be, what is success for me? Well, what do I know about that. What do I know about anything. I have only failed. I have succeeded, yes, but only in the areas in which I never wanted to even step in, much rather succeed. But such has been my life. Oh how the time passes. The fucking time. Decades have passed in a blink, and I’m still nowhere. Being nowhere doesn’t bother me much though. People have reached somewhere only relatively. In the absolute sense, in this giant nothingness, we all are nowhere.

The waiter is looking at me since quite some time now. I haven’t ordered anything yet. Now, it’s 9:15 at night. I’ve been sitting here and thinking about all this since about two hours. Shit.

‘Listen, man. If you’ve got nothing to order, just get the hell outta here. What are you doing here sitting alone anyways?’ the waiter finally walked to me in disgust and asked hurriedly.

‘Alright. What should I have. What should I have. OK. One coffee, please’ I replied.

‘That is all?’ he asked

‘That will be all.’

– Tomic Riter. © All rights reserved.

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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.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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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.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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