Tag: poetry

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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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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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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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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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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