Tomic Riter

Tag: poet

  • Day six.

    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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  • Four in a row.

    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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  • Three bad days.

    Believe me when I say it. Three bad days in a row is totally unlike two bad days in a row. By the third day, you stop caring. You become eerily quiet. You utter words but only in response. You wouldn’t want to say anything of your own will. And your responses are to the point, nothing more. For everything else, you just nod or smile. It’s your way of telling the world, ‘That’s all you’re gonna get from me.’ Earlier, I used to keep fighting for a week or so. Now, it isn’t so. Now, I prefer to stay quiet, do my shit, refrain from picking up a fight (as much as possible), go home and write some shit. That’s all I care about now – to write something every fucking day, doesn’t matter how bad the day went. I’ve seen worse, no doubt. But this is a new kind of worse. Please note that whatever I am writing is just my observation. I do not complain ever. I have not a single complaint. You know why? Because I chose this. I chose all of this. I have put myself through all of this just to squeeze something out of myself. I am not so sure if there’s anything left in me anyways. But that doesn’t stop me from digging.

    Outside, no rain, surprisingly. Better to have no rain than to have an awful lot. For now, a cup of coffee. There’s a night waiting to begin.

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  • Two bad days.

    One bad day is fine. But two bad days in a row makes it a disaster. Looking at how things are going this week, it’s going to be an apocalypse by Saturday. But such is the nature of an apocalypse. Either it makes you do all the insane things you always wanted to do but couldn’t, or it makes you want to become the nicest man that you can be. I, personally, have always felt inclined towards insanity. The insanity of the spirit, not of the actions. A man insane in spirit is closer to freedom than the rest of us. Tonight, I will smoke again, like I did yesterday. No more cleanliness for a while. Outside, it just keeps raining. It’s a cold, bone-breaking, nerve chilling rain. I have been wet head to toe thrice in the last twenty four hours. No signs of sickness yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Maybe I am already too fucking sick to carry any more sickness in me.

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  • Telling a story.

    That’s the thing. You tell a story. You don’t show it. Unfortunately, a great many who write fail in that. It’s important to arrest a reader’s mind in all the ways possible. It’s important to tickle his sense organs because that’s what connects him with the outside world. The sense organs. The senses of touch, smell, sound, sight and taste. I don’t suppose that it’s very hard to write a good piece of prose. Of course, it’s a craft, and like any craft, one needs to invest some time in learning it. These days, I’ve been giving some time to it. I haven’t delved much into fiction writing before. As I learn, I begin to see the fiction world as an aid rather than an obstacle in the path of telling my story. I can imagine, surely, but my imaginations have a great many gaps. It’s all about being creative with what you got in your hands. You cannot keep waiting just to begin. If it doesn’t begin now, I am afraid it might never ever begin.

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  • Whatever saves you.

    I wished to share a piece that I had written earlier tonight. Instead, I am sharing this. I am sharing nothing. I think it’s better for now that I share nothing, because what I’m going to share later might be the best ever written in this world.

    Well, that has always been my problem. I am inherently violent. I was born with hot veins, and it’s only after three decades that I’ve been able to calm my nerves. But what’s the relationship between me being violent and me not sharing what I think is the best that I’ve ever written? No idea. Maybe there is a similarity between the two. Maybe both are worthless to the world and of the most worth to me. My anger and my words have saved me. I haven’t cared much about the rest of the world. I have done my shit and I have done it well and the world around me took care of itself. I do whatever saves me. It’s not that I am afraid of dying. I just think it’s imperative that I’m kept alive for the sake of keeping the good in check. Too much goodness, too much kindness, too much care, too much love and the world will collapse.

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  • Milestone 2.0

    Finished writing 200 pages of rough manuscript for my first work of prose. Coming out some time later this year or early next year. For now, learning the craft a little bit more. When it’s about writing, there’s nothing more important than to write and write and write and write. Come what may, you need to sit at your desk and do the writing every day. After years, I have come to that point where I can say that I have developed that kind of writing stamina. Whatever that day, however long and tiring it gets at work, I make sure I write something before I am in bed. It can be anything. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I get it fucking done.

    Feels good to see 200 pages of solid writing that I started with on 28th September last year. Nothing special about that day though. What makes the day memorable is this moment right now in which I remember it. That day was nothing on its own then but today, when I think about that day, it has gained some significance because a journey got started then and it continued well and I didn’t quit midway like always. 200 pages, 58000+ words, 800 paragraphs later, the writing still continues. Page count, word count all that doesn’t matter right now. I can do 200 more pages in maybe half the time. Maybe. For now, a moment of rest.

    Let me know in comments what you’re currently working on. Have a good time.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

    CLICK HERE TO VISIT MY AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE AND PURCHASE MY BOOKS

  • Building my empire.

    An empire isn’t built in a day. We build it brick by brick. It takes time. It can even take decades and that’s alright as long as we stay focused. I have always realised that persistence is the only key to meeting one’s goals. We need to persist. We need to constantly be at it, work for it. We cannot do it one day and then forget about it for a week or a month. I have not been a very persistent man until now. Now is when things have begun to change for me. I am much more clear headed than before. I am building my empire brick by brick each day and in all quietness. It’s the easiest and the hardest thing to persist. Most of them get bored even before they are halfway. That’s not persistence. Persistence is to keep putting bricks until the very last day. It’s easy only if one is focused. Without focus, without a clear picture of what one wants, one cannot persist. I do not have a clear picture yet, but I do have a clearer one. It will keep me going.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • Phonecall.

    ‘Where did you disappear last night?’ she called at 11 this morning and asked.

    ‘I just went out. It’s nothing’ I said.

    ‘Are you okay? I feel worried about you’ she asked.

    ‘Yeah I’m good. I’m good. Good. Hey listen, I’ll call you back in an hour. Bye,’ I said.

    ‘Sure. Bye,’ she said and cut the call.

    I threw the phone hard at the opposite wall. It didn’t broke into pieces. Only the screen flickered fast and then all went blank. I just realised what I had done. I broke my phone.

    ‘I broke my phone’ I thought again and again. I wasn’t able to think about anything else for few minutes. I kept sitting in that corner. I kept staring at my phone. I didn’t know what to do. I felt paralysed. ‘Should I check if it’s working? Should I leave it? Should I get rid of it altogether? Should I get it repaired? It’s surely broken. What if it’s not? Should I just check it once? Should I? What should I do?’ More questions arose in my head. I got up and walked to my phone. Just as I picked it up with my right hand, it exploded.

    ‘Shit shit shit shit shit! Fuck! Shit shit shit shit!’ I screamed and fell back on the floor. The smell of smoke filled my nose. I felt nauseated. I looked at my right hand. A third of my index finger was gone. Half of my middle finger was gone. The rest of my hand was in blood. ‘Shit shit shit shit shit’ I was screaming very loud. I crawled back to the corner farthest from the point of explosion. It hurt really bad. It was the first time I had lost a part of my body. I was screaming and I was in tears and I wasn’t able to think. It was as if I had just lost my one hand. I really had. With two less fingers, what was a hand anyways. I kept sitting there for a couple of minutes. As I was about to get up, the phone rang again.

    ‘What the hell,’ I thought. I pissed right there. My eyes searched for the source of ringing and found it to be just the chip of the phone. The ringing came from there.

    With fear, I crawled to where the chip was. What more have I got to lose, I thought. I reached the chip. It was still ringing. No cover. Only a couple of buttons on the top were strangely intact. I pressed one of the buttons.

    ‘Hey are you alright? You didn’t call me back. I feel so worried really,’ said the voice. It was her again.

    ‘Bitch just shut up! Shuutttt Uppppp!!!’ I screamed into the ears of the chip and threw a hard punch at it with my left hand. The chip exploded in my face.

    The ringing stopped.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • Rejections.

    I am not meant to be caged. I learnt that shit about myself in childhood itself. I have always hated rules when it comes to expressing oneself creatively. That is why I hate the rejections that come in my way because I apparently didn’t follow some stupid writing structure when creating a short story. The reason I didn’t follow the structure is very simple and it is that I do not fucking care about the stupid structure. When I write, I try to make sure that whatever I accomplish writing is interesting enough to read. That is to say that it is clear to read and it isn’t boring. That’s it. I do not care about some structure that some online academic courses taught by unknown unheard of college professors cum novelists want you to follow while writing. To the academicians, I say ‘Suck my dick!’

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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