Tomic Riter

Tag: story

  • Horror talk.

    Dogs barking on dark streets. Men barking from inside their homes, from their porches, women barking day and night. It’s strange, darkness makes men and women and dogs scream, as if the absence of light acknowledges the presence of horror of some kind. But what could that horror be. What could that be. It could be anything for any man or any dog. It could be something trivial or something colossal, and lets forget about the dogs (they aren’t the issue really). And if it’s colossal, then what makes it colossal for that man, because it’s all in the head, right? All in the head, big and small, horror and sweetness. When it gets dark and nothing can be seen, I think the mind wanders off to dire corners and alleyways. I think the horror is somewhere there, somewhere in those places, in that unfamiliarity, in those situations of unclear consequences. I think man has always been afraid of unclear consequences. If a consequence is known, however bad it might be, a man can still prepare for it. Man doesn’t like to leave a situation without answers. That would kill him. It takes something else to go through that. It takes more than the preparation of mind. It takes the strength of the spirit. Cigarettes and alcohol might help on the way to whatever that is, but cigarettes and alcohol aren’t the end in itself, because if they become the end, then the spirit has got nothing left to do but cry for the rest of time.

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  • Blood matter.

    Nothing happened today. Not even a single damn thing. Nothing at all except chasing pointless targets. The targets set by the capitalists. The targets robbing us of of our lives and our time. The targets not letting us sleep. I do not even remember if I masturbated today. Pathetic. Sometimes, life can really kill you. Life and all this living. Living like I am these days. No day or night. Only it’s just too windy all the time, and sometimes it rains and then it gets really cold. Not a bird seen in the morning. No sunsets. No sunrises. No road drives. No beaches or mountains. Just walking to my desk and then at night, walking back home. I am just trying to write something everyday. It might be complete bullshit but then who cares. Nobody reads anyways. Even if somebody does, he might decide to stop reading in no time. My words and my sentences won’t offer any comfort to them. Such are my words and my sentences. My own veins have turned blue writing them. My lips have dried, my wrists have broken. My wounds are healing and soon, new ones will find their way to me. I am never not scarred. Something always comes running after me to hack off my head. I am always in a fight although not each one gets bloody. But each one is no less real. The fight. All fights. The fight to live like I want to live. The only true fight there is. The only revolution that matters to me. My own personal revolution – to go against everybody and come out winning. They won’t acknowledge my win or even my fight or even that I ever fought when within me, I have been fighting each second of my life. I do not want this fight to end up bloody. The sight of blood at the scene would be of no consequence. The blood will dry and it will lose its pigment and even that will be of no consequence. The blood will be gone, hidden below their trampling footsteps and the noise of everyday death. But my fight will keep on in one way or another.

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  • Jazz, Paradox, Night.

    Rubbing my eyes off cigarette smoke. Rubbing my chest. Thinking about an orange sky. Listening to Layla. Layla. Layla. That goddamn guitar riff opening my eyes for the first time this evening. It’s nothing of an evening. Nothing much but it’s there. Words do not matter and yet I write words all the time. This whole life is like a paradox. I am dead and yet alive. I do not want and yet I want. I do not need but I do. I do not care but I do. I am tired and agile. I am fed up and I feel ecstatic. Tragedy brings me the joy nothing else can. Alcohol kills, cigarette kills, love kills, seeing anybody around kills, empty bottles kill me the same, empty cigarette packs too, lack of love is a straight rusted dagger through me. I am such a kind, walking in and out of existence, walking in and out of everybody’s lives. When I think about all the jazz, I feel that Coltrane was overrated. Dave Brubeck and Mal Waldron and Duke Ellington deserve more ears. Taking a walk in the corridor. Miles Davis playing Rubberband Of Life. Coming back dancing in my chair. Thinking about a million things. The wind outside, the leaves rustling, the night, this night. My head running through the events of the day once again to see if I missed out on anything. I don’t think I have but I am sure I have. Part of the paradox, I guess.

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  • These goddamn people.

    Every day this attempt to put down as much words as possible.It’s a strange evening. The music is here but I am somewhere else, stuck in the dump of trivialities once again. Drinking beer and lighting cigarettes hoping they would save me again. I don’t think they will. I really don’t. This time it’s different. This time I am going down for good. This is my last innings. I am finally at the edge of cliff having the last piss of my life. What a fucking music. What a music fucking me What a fucking fucking music. These goddamn people. Their very attitude towards life gives me headache. I am head down bleeding out of my stomach, the capitalist teeth tearing me to bits. Fuck. FUCK! Another swig of cold beer, Another cigarette. The devil is out of the box and he won’t go down easily. He is alive and he is laughing like he has never laughed before.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • From the graveyard.

    Four rounds of cigarettes and black coffee. Sometimes, five rounds of cigarettes and black coffee. Sometimes, everything goes berserk and I lose track of count and my room starts smelling like fire broke out. Saw a clear orange sunset after a lifetime. Saw it until the sky turned grey and finally disappeared. Then walked back into my room thinking about another round of cigarettes and black coffee. Soon midnight and the silly want of not falling asleep. Another round of cigarettes and black coffee will follow. Outside is quiet as if I live in a graveyard. Maybe I do. Lots of dead people around. It might not be a graveyard but it’s nothing less either. Equally full and equally empty. Equally scary. Even the tree leaves rustle like the tree leaves in a graveyard. Damn. Am I really living in a graveyard? I am sure ghosts have a sweeter tongue than these people. Almost midnight. Time to pack up and fuck off to my grave.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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  • Thinking about…

    Thinking about the next song to play. Thinking about getting up and boiling eggs. Thinking about falling asleep again. Thinking about getting my shit together. Thinking about the next song to play. Thinking about walking to the garden for no reason, but it’s too hot outside. Thinking about lighting a cigarette.

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  • Shit is deeper than you think it is.

    I am alive because I am alive and nobody can guarantee my life. Nobody can tell its expiry date, not even those astrologers, palm readers, lawmen, gunmen, bandits, snipers, doctors, hangmen, retail sellers, cinema hall goers, economists, conspiracy theorists, gods, philosophers, psychiatrists, healers, priests, butchers, facefuckers, assfuckers, blowjob givers, dickheads, cunts, the terminally ill, the mad, the insane. Nobody knows shit about anything. We all have been fooled, HA HA HA HA HA HA. FOOLED!!!

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Rewind. Repeat. Smoke and die.

    The wound takes time to heal. First, there’s redness. Then a little itching. Sometimes, too much. Then the new cells form and then, new skin. After a time, the wound disappears, like it was never there. But sometimes, the hurt continues. The flexibility just goes away. The bone gets weaker. The skin wrinkles. The muscles slacken. Even a little twist begins to hurt. Sometimes, you blow wind on where it hurts hoping it gets a little better. Sometimes, it does get better. Sometimes. The song keeps changing. The voice changing. It’s a whole goddamn playlist to cry over tonight. Lou Reed playing again. A call interrupted the mood. Not an important call.It was just my mother. 30 seconds long call. That much is enough to tell her I am still alive and everything is alright. Rewound the song. Played again from the start. Almost broke down. Almost.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Blues, Coffee, Cigarettes, Lighters, Matchsticks.

    Another one of those evenings with coffee, cigarettes, old school blues loud on my speakers. Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy, B.B.King. Mustang Sally on repeat. What voices! What voices! And what lyrics! They throw you right away in the sweetest goddamn blues. You can’t help but light another cigarette. And there’s nothing like lighting a cigarette with goddamn matchsticks. Yeah, right off those goddamn matchsticks. I think if a cigarette has to be lit, and if you really really want to light it and I mean really want to light it, it better be done with a matchstick and in one go. Well, that’s some cigarette wisdom right there. A lighter isn’t bad or anything to use, it’s just it’s too organised, too polished, too nice. Now, we have these lighters with plastic red blue yellow bodies. Gas lighters. Transparent. You can see the fuel right through and how much of it remains, so that you get an idea about when to buy a new one. With matchsticks and matchboxes, it’s somewhat similar but not the same. The feeling is not the same. Matchboxes with no labels or names come straight from hell. Matchsticks carry some rawness. I like that rawness, that feeling of living like an animal. Damnit give me as raw as it can be. Things too clean begin to disgust me after some time. Clean bedroom, clean kitchen, clean toilet, clean bedsheet, clean glasses and plates, clean clothes, clean face, meditation and yoga, breakfast on time, dinner on time, sleep on time, just one glass of red wine, just one cigarette, just one glass of rum, just one bottle of beer, combed hair, brushing every day, taking bath each morning. Things dirty make me unstoppable, activate all my neurons at once, fill my veins with stallion blood. Drugs could never really make me high enough. Even if they did, it was all just momentary. Somebody once told me not to chase what’s momentary. I told him to fuck off. I am chasing nothing. I am here in this moment, trying to be as alive as I can be in the ways that I know of.

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  • Enough of this shit.

    ‘Enough of this shit,’ I thought at exactly 8:35 night, got up from my chair, turned it to face my laptop, sat back, turned on my laptop, thought about writing some more shit. The music, well, it never stops playing as long as I am alive and not deaf. Once I go deaf, it will make for a completely different story. A tragic story, tragic like nothing else. I guess I’ve still got time to go deaf. I think something else will take me away before that happens. Something like my 9-5 job. Yeah. Something as brutal as that. A 9-5 job can be more brutal than any war. Billions of casualties every day. BILLIONS! Can you imagine that, billions dying the same death every day and all that for nothing? And all that repeating the next day and the next and the next. What can be more brutal than that! At least war doesn’t take that long to end you, and it has got a much better flavor. I heard that nothing good ever comes out of a war. It’s true. Nothing good comes out of a 9-5 job either. That’s my goddamn truth. Everyday brutality is something quite personal. It can take any form. For me, it’s my 9-5 job. For others, it might be something else. But that brutality is there in some form. You can see it clearly in their faces, in the ways they fail to laugh with all their heart. So much fear. So much spite for one another. So much good and mad and all that down the shithole without anybody noticing. I am a little different and completely fucked up. I have got these damned eyes and this damned brain and I can see it all. Some motherfucker rang my doorbell again. Must be the neighbors’ kids. Someday I will fit a bomb there. Someday. The rain seems to have stopped. Yeah, it rained like hell this evening, all that rainwater filling the belly of this earth. There could be some other earth somewhere, surviving on sulfur, on peroxides, on the most poisonous of the poisons. Out of nowhere, I begin to think about such an alternative earth. No, I am not getting anywhere. I will die right here with my beer and my cigarettes and my mad heroes and mad artists. That will be my end and it won’t be that bad and I do not know whether to feel happy or sad about it..

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.