Tag: poetry

Back home early from work. Oh the pleasure of coming home early from work, although there’s nothing much to do at home. The pleasure of sitting naked on the couch legs crossed or stretched out, putting on loud music, opening a can of beer, watching sunset from my bedroom, writing, reading a new book. It had been a long while since I gave time to myself.

Work keeps me busy. There’s a lot to do. Sometimes, I got nothing going on my mind other than work stuff. I miss out even on writing. It is something that seldom happens with me. However less time I get for myself, I do not forget to write. Now, sipping beer and listening to some good old music. God’s gonna cut you down.

On the writing front, been writing a fresh set of poems based loosely on my night experiences. The collection is still untitled. For now, I must get the writing done. The collection will be my third collection of poetry. A work of prose is already complete. It does need to be edited before I get it published. This year has been good so far. I mean there’s work stuff but it doesn’t bother me anymore. Got to live with that for now.

It had been a while since I last wrote here. I keep forgetting this place. I have promised before that I would be writing here regularly but it hasn’t happened. I won’t make any such promises this time. Sometimes, circumstances are such that they keep me away from this place. But I’ve always loved this place. It means much to me that you, my reader, are here and you’re reading all of this. It’s just unbelievable. I have unbound respect for you.

Damn! I didn’t even realise when my glass of beer got over. Need to pour another one. Need to get this evening going. Sometimes I wish I were in another city getting drunk on something that I haven’t gotten drunk on before. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

I think I should stop this one here. The sun is almost set. I hope you have been well all this while.

© Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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That there’s a legal age for drinking and it varies from one country to another says a lot about how well we have our laws planned. In short, a man/woman breaking law in one country might not be doing so in some other country, and is, as a result, not punished in one country and punished for the same act in another country. How ridiculous is that. The society has always sucked, especially because of its senseless definitions of what’s acceptable and what’s not. Maybe man leading from forests to the civilisation was itself a mistake. Maybe none of this is sustainable and we have come to the point where we’re just tolerating each other’s bullshit and we have to keep doing that every fucking day because we see no other way. Everybody’s so scared of a little chaos, but the chaos is inevitable.

It’s amusing how a thought turns to a paragraph. Something has been hurting my lower back since a week now. It’s like something is inside my skin and eating me from within, literally. However much I stretch, it isn’t getting better. It’s like the ache is spreading slowly, like an infection. Haven’t had a proper sleep in two days. Maybe all I need is one good sleep, and the ache will be gone. Maybe I need to walk more. Maybe I need to put my body to some use, and this ache is just the beginning of a rot.

It’s a sunny day. A hundred miles have been covered between yesterday and today. This year is about adding miles to the whole experience. On other note, the house is in a complete disorder. Bottles everywhere, garbage, soiled clothes, dust. I don’t know where to begin. Maybe I’ll just lie down and try forgetting about it all one more time.

– – Tomic Riter. © All rights reserved.

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None of my lines have ever repeated, or maybe they have. How would I know. I never read my stuff again unless of course it’s for the purpose of editing. Otherwise, why would I read it again. I wouldn’t want to change anything about it other than, maybe, make a few minor structural and grammatical corrections to it.

Whatever I have written above, it’s all just lies, and whatever I’m writing next, be so kind as to not believe a word of it. The actual writing begins in the second draft. It’s where the existing paragraphs grow and new paragraphs get added. Writing the second draft is like finding little stories within the big story. It’s like asking oneself – between two lines, what else can fit and make sense, what else can complete the idea that I intend to put through. The intention is not to write more pages. It is to convey the idea as clearly as it should be conveyed.

I haven’t much experience in the field of editing. So far, I have published only two books. But I have been through the process of publishing from beginning to end. It’s a joy in itself. But why, all of a sudden, I am sharing all of this.

Maybe I’ve got nothing to do this morning. I’ve been running here and there since last two days. There hasn’t been a moment of complete rest until now. I have arrived in this moment stumbling all along. This morning, I am not drunk, well, not yet. And since I woke up, I haven’t heard a song either. I haven’t a single cloth on my body. It’s just complete silence around me. And now I’m having this urge to take a short road trip alone.

I think I got to go somewhere right away.

— Tomic Riter. © All rights reserved.

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What would I tell the world if it asked me what happened today. What could I possibly tell. In fact, what could I tell the world about any of my days. It’s like everything is happening at once, and also nothing at all. There’s so much that when I sit down to write, I sometimes find nothing for a couple of paragraphs. It’s just two paragraphs of me trying to put down what happened. Sometimes, I fail to put it down in pages, not because I am unable to write, but because my head is just consumed with all sorts of things, and then there’s alcoholism. There’s also smoking now and then. There are many more things. Sometimes I feel I am running with a lot on my back. But whether or not I end up writing about what happened or didn’t happen, I always end up writing something. I have never found myself failing in that. What would I feel like if, one day, I fail in that. Shit. I can’t think about it right now.

Now is the time to relax and take it very slowly. Now is the time to sip my drink slowly. Now is the time to take long drags off my cigarette, keep the smoke in my mouth for long as I can, and then, finally, at the very end of the act, exhale. A slow, very slow exhalation, and after I have exhaled, I look up at the ceiling like it’s not the ceiling but the sky itself, and I look at it like I’m trying hard to find a few stars there, trying to find some brightness there. I am drunk and in the lap of music. I have been in that state on most of my evenings.

Right now, as I type, I am sitting with my back against the setting sun. My teeth are sour. My hair all messed up. My clothes are carrying the stench of a whole month gone bad. My drink is about to finish. The dizziness is building up all too slowly. There’s a song waiting to be played. It’s been there on my mind since I woke up this morning.

– Tomic Riter. © All rights reserved.

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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.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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