BALLAD TO A NEWBORN

Dream dream..dream my child;
Of polished tongues.."tie"d necks;
Of manic streets and their tainted tents.
Covenant of corpses..youth too mild.

Learn learn..learn my child;
The poet is a fool..the singer a lier.
Lifes' a prison..Heavens' a lie;
The grass is red..where angels dare not fly.

Walk walk..walk my child;
Ain't no drifters paradise..
Walk into the obvious..or monotone as I say.
Or into your desires..for then, "live" you may.

Beware beware..beware my child;
Of urban sting..when hypocrites sing.
Of judgmental coats and their naked ego.
Smile and let leave..for its you,my "unlabeled" king.

Hold hold..hold my child;
The antique book of innocence,
Dipped in the quicksand of souls.
Twist the words in between..then never crawl; but roll.

Fill fill..fill my child;
Your heart..and, your mind with vengeance..
Avenge your birth..Your mutilated choice;
To be born..or left dead.

TO A (soon to be) HUNG POET

Plowman of his own field of

Gray; recondite words his

Sword for the prey. His lustful

pen makes a certain Venus stray.

With her deliquesced bosom, I fear

He might play.

O poet! In ink your weapon

Dip you may, in vengeance

I dip mine. Bleed her purple,

Or a foul word say; I'll drag

A poet like ye, for the

Epitaph for ye own shrine.

O poet! The tocsin of ye death,

Is loudly rung. Your doll is ma

Lady, beware poet, beware.

Scratch her an inch, the

Maple on ye flagitious field

Will bear ye body; neatly hung.

On Intellectuals

The poetess and her crippled husband

named Wit, mocked at workers

for they wore helmets, hands stiff,

no fancy words to their mouth did fit.

Lover of her own gray,

flummoxed by her own gray;

to aplomb did she yield. Facetious

her life of absconding reality.

Crowned men's crowned words,

panegyric her shield.

Fancies and fantasies; her inked down

thoughts. To a door knob she wrote, while the

worker curved her the door. Cursed be the clerisy,

the public profligates and their obscure poems.

They mock us in blue, while our crimson blood mourns.

Menagerie of alienated tots, like she

and a few more; their effete pens

puking stoic words, dried up passion;

just for another western alien's coffee mug.

Though you and me; wont know his identity,

just another crab of distant shore.

Huh! I say, let her write, for she

can. And let us draw our earthly visions, for

thats what we commoners are for. Our

poems rhyme, our songs sing, our bloods red

and never blue. Its not common man's odyssey;

but a low man's lyric.

BILLY

two kids in a park;
smiling with the breeze, swaying with the flowers;
the setting sun...beyond dark, daylight cowers,
time for Billy and friend..to depart.

Thought Billy..no escape from mundane.

School in the morn;
and the shirt button torn.
Billy's mom gifted.
The same ol' road, and the fields of corn.

Thought Billy..no escape from mundane.

Seconds passes the batton,
the years win the race.
Billy has new specs.
And a new face.

Toxic age of sixteen,
a fiery heart but a troubled spleen.
Doctors wore a smile..
while Billy's parents; wiped off theirs.

The corner shop bike,
Billy's first love and a few alike.
Rich friend Dick; bought it on tuesday.
Billy hates the book;
he got on his birthday.

Thought Billy..no escape from mundane.

Open shirts n leather jackets;
smoking pots under blankets.
“starlit” Billy, the college fresshman.
Friends? Well..closed brackets.

The worm between lines;
ate Billy's days;
the jeans n jackets flew around.
For Billy; just a haze.

Ol' records n the second hand classic;
the british singer n the silent maverick.
His world wasn't dark..he just liked the windows shut.

Thought Billy..my world's a big rot...lemme out..lemme out...

Sophomore days; crippling zombie craze..
dripping hope...battered n cold..
from frozen heart..once ablaze..

the jackets went down;
the jeans smiled at the clowns;
the book worm was happy,
he was the king, he wore a crown.

Soaring figures defining future;
the one taken by all,
“machines will rule u Billy”
“the classic's trash..the culture's poisoned..
stop acting silly”

Cried Billy..I wnna be me..let me..let me.

Dead sparrow 'desire'; curved him a cynic,
he wrote no more..
common men..his subject of mimic.


But,
it aint autumn yet...
crescent bows bear the last maple..
he's a prince;
his kingdom ruled by merry people..

Cries Billy..in joy..I'll live in thee..I'll live in thee..m free..

THE IMPRESSIONISTS..

The choo­ choo trains make a hell lot of a noise. My mp3 player can never outsmart the volume of the rumble on iron rails. Traveling like a gypsy with a pricey backpack makes me look like a yahoo with no real intention to make a long term impression..even on the minds of the rustic co-­passengers.
Frustrated with the incapability of ma music player, I started looking around the smelly,noisy compartment. The usually “reserved” traveler couldn't find a reserved compartment this time. And, the same goes with the co­-passengers. Their mouth had a “no reservation” board hanging right there to make me feel like a dustbin of their mutilated emotions; and not so friendly house hold chores. Dnno why, they always pick me as the “ideal listener”..maybe its ma bloody face again.
“Yes auntie..thats bad...I should have known u, since we live in d same 'para'!!”, ........“Yes uncle..your son should have got that job..the bloody scoundrels made a mistake..”, ....”Aha !!! ur son's in IIT ??!! WOWW!!..that was ma dream, u know..” Never can u say, “I never applied for the IIT”, thus risking an outburst of “why??”; emoted neatly
with a skeptic,poker face.In a while, I got rid of them. Concentrated on the hawkers instead. And trust me, they “hawk” too well for an non IIM-­wallah !!! I almost jumped on ma seat, when that over pitched
voice shouted like a gramaphone on the wrong track; the very words that will scare girls like u. He was yelling out..”sore jaan..sore
jaan..chyanka diye debo kintu..” (translates to “get away from ma way..else..I'll burn u all” ). Then he said..”ami chyankao debo, takao nebo” (translates to “i'll burn u all, n get paid for that too” ). He was selling HOT SAMOSAS !!
The other guy was screaming his lungs out, in a language which seemed in close relation to Hebrew !! I asked, what the f*ck r u screaming in ma ears...i cant comprehend a single word..n neither can anybody in d compartment. He said, now in lucid Bangla..” If u aint
like that blind beggar with the harmonium, u can pretty well see that I'm selling safety pins..but then, u wouldn't need them and notice me; without that improvised language..I'm a success.”
A bit shaken by the last two encounters, I concentrated on the gray “scenery” outside. ( Yeah rt !!..I somehow managed the coveted window seat ). The first thing I noticed; was the painted sign board of a grocery shop beside Sodpur station platform. ( Ya Garry...it aint ur
Noida. We do our grocery shopping even on a railway platform. We r “practical bengalis” !! ) The sign read “BABA KHYAPA ALOO AND CONG.” !!! Now thats what I call “creating an impression” even with ur rotten potatoes !!!
I couldn't help overhear a heated conversation between two middle aged, pot­bellied,
dark skinned, flat nosed, snuff addict “gentlemen”..clad in creamish, dirty half shirts (a patented novelty of the stereotype bengal government office”babu” ??!! )...with all seven fingers donning seven gems. They were talking about communism in Bengal. Another daily diet for their scrupled intellect. For Garry...Communism in Bengal gives u the unbridled right to forget Marx and embrace Bush and then burn Bush just to be called the venerated Marxists.They got bored in a while; or maybe one of them had no more arrows (read 'slangs') left in his
quiver. I was fiddling with ma phone, and then one of the guys asked me..whos d guy on ma phone wallpaper. I said..he's Karl Marx. He said..”I knew it..was just testing u..u know..younger generations.. he he”. Goodbye Che Guevara...u couldnt be the most popular one, but certainly u had the looks of Marx..and, thats pretty pathetic.

HOMEWARD DOVE
The word “home” baffles me at times. Never could understand the unsuppressed joy of a kid when asked to go home. Maybe because I never felt at home. The only home I feel like visiting is the corner of my mind; and guess what..that makes me happy !! “happy” being another rarity of my emotions.
The flight back home wasn't so smooth, even irritating at times. I was asked for a security clearance three times, every time bringing up a new issue to detain me..but definitely my flight wasn't going to be detained. The Swiss Knife; my prized possession; was about to be confiscated and all you could do in defense was to argue, my obvious stupid point being “Its Swiss man !! ever been to Switzerland moron ?? this baby is precious..”. My zippo is gone, my screw driver confiscated..and I was standing at the metal detector doors like a figure of Apollo while the idiots frisked me for any other toys I might carry. Seconds were running like crazy bunnies with a forest fire chasing them. Got in the bloody iron dove just a second to spare. My encounter with Mr. Relax was short short-lived. I had two east european co-­passengers !!!
Trust me; I tried my best to keep mum, being numb was by default a facility which I never requested. The two bloody hippos squeezed me like a lemon in a lemon crusher. One had a hairdo as if he combed his hair with an egg­beater. And then came the “t” bursts. A myriad of stupid questions about Calcutta with a “t” in every word..like “Kal Kutta” !! Fine, you wanna call me a dog, do it..but just not squeeze me idiots !! That excruciating two hours did end with a pungent memory of firangis with bad english but liked the guys new HP iPaq 9400. Its easy to love someone (or something ) but real hard to see her (or that) with someone else. Wont deny, I was J. I was all Hulk.

ROCK N POP
Delight, delight, delight !!! Mom (Rock a.k.a Mummy Lee) and Pop were there to receive me. But that wasn't the delight I was talking about. They were holding hands !!!!!! My Audrey and Peck blushed when I pointed out that they were on the right track to make a Victoria Memorial Holiday.
Slept on mom's lap all throughout the journey back home. Our driver vaiya was under the constant supervision of dad lest he misses a pothole and I wake up. Felt good, real good..being with my parents ..whom I misunderstood all along. Dad, I love ya..and I know the feeling is mutual. I'm sorry for being such a moron.

RESUME(s)....
For two days, I hogged liked a pig and was forced to disown my friend Mr. “Filthy Pig” Abhi. The luxury of my cozy room (which never was cozy when I stayed!!) almost made me forget, I am bloody jobless !! The realization came on the third day, when I went to buy a packet of fags for me.
I was short of changes; not that I needed any, but the feeling of being short of pennies almost chilled my spine and boiled my nerve cells urging me to do “something” to get me going.
The resumes went on like flying paper brochures thrown from a American plane on Jap land of 1944. The search was easy, the hunt was not. I thought; to get a job with my qualifications would be a walk in the park. I was wrong. Went back to Calcutta, for the hunt to begin and for a kill.
Eventually, the jobs started knocking at my door. Low scaled ones; insufficient to compensate my over priced education. A college interview went awfully bad, with me all burnt in the cheeks and ears. Realized, you gotta be a professor's son to get that job, for a certain Mr. Ghoshal , son of a professor was grinning when I trudged my way back beyond the hell's kitchen doors. Friends, i dint say, he was a son of a bitch..OOPSS !! said it..pardon ma foul words; ma
butterflies..
Hotels became my home. Room 29 was ma paradise after a long day. Haunted by depression, I succumbed to substance abuse. I went for an overdose of the anti depressant I was prescribed. Felt good, felt like the LSDs I once had. Felt bad, when my girlfriend called. She refused to talk to me,for I refused to make any sense when i talked to her...the dope was bad...that bad.



JOB
The second interview was a breeze. Got in. “Some” College. The student had now a job to teach students. And being me “ME”, the first day went bullshitting. And since again, its me..my bull craps, horse piss lectures were gulped like Martini with Cavier with a cherry on top.
Next day, I was prepared to get the glares n stares of a few rastafarians for i believed, they would come prepared. Went in like a midget, came out like Goliath. I was good at my game again.

GIRLS, TABOOS N VICES.....
Its not much of a joy to own a face which can land me back into my college classes. This baby face look is such a nuisance I so eagerly want to shed off. Nobody calls me “Macho”,”handsome” like I always wanted to hear...instead; “cute” runs like a devil with a pitchfork behind me just to mock at my miseries.
With a class strength of just twelve, it was quite easy for me to come out of ma shell. The response was overwhelming. I became what I was back with you all guys, with an exception off-course.....the girls.
I hate that dreamy stare from a girl, especially when I'm trying to concentrate. And hell yes, that I get plenty. But, these birds undah two years of age will nevah know, what turns me on.Been around a plethora of ladies, (some nt so lady like) who wanted a share of my time, but I got in them all the virtues I disliked, and none of the vices I love. These silly simpering girls went all for
my smoking habit as if they had the authority over all smokers and its their solemn duty to force them quit. The saga continues even today.
I have quit drinking, i'm hogging..but I damn need those bloody cigarettes.

DUMB(BOX) AND THE DUMBERER..
Hotel rooms, though pricey; comes with its own charm; the Telivision. I missed my favourite shows on Discovery, Nat Geo when I was a slave back in Pune. I was thrilled to see a rerun of Steve's croc hunt. The guys amazing.
But, crocs and snakes, shuttles and trucks do bore me in a while. Started flipping channels.A few good films with a sandwich in hand (or a Big Mac) could have made me feel better. The films on HBO was a disaster, for it seemed to me; theres not a film on earth I haven't yet watched. The search for d “decent” channel continued. And eventually my finger got stuck on Fashion TV.
The carnival of flesh was fascinating, wont deny that. The female form always did fascinate me, though sexual urges remains dormant (even fr d experienced guy I see daily in ma shaving mirror), for I love the form.I am not much of a motion guy.
That too bored me in a while. Click, click, click..and there I was watching the mutiny in Bangladesh. The clip showed a policeman carrying an enfield .303 rifle. He was running, n somehow the rifle belt got stuck to a close standing rickshaw wheel. The guy stumbled and fell on his face. Hilarious...now, thats what I call a mutiny footage. And then came the dope news..Adnan Sami has filed a lawsuit against his wife regarding the custody of their ..”labrador dog Rocky”..he he. Poor rocky should stick to the wife, else he will have to snatch dog biscuits from Adnan in the dead of night.
Night was the black vulture of Nefertiti keeping a close watch on me. The moment I would fall asleep, it would feed on my carcass. I knew that. I had to stay awake, I had a morning bus to catch. I have traveled more than a thousand K.m's last week. I know, whats it like to run for a bus..the only one to your interview (in this case, job).

BREAK, SHATTER AND NO­ FIX....
2:30 AM, was just about to hit the shack, the phone rang. The voice on the other side was and always will be soothing but certainly without dedication. It was my girlfriend.
Not much of a detailed summary to write about in here about what went then, but I was pretty much determined after years, not to hang around her anymore..not to be the second best.From the words of ABBA, “knowing me, knowing you..was the best we could do..n here we stand facing the sky”. The break­up was easy, the pain that followed wasn't.
But then, a man has to move on, especially from the crowd of neglect that will ruin his future. I am officially single again. I am a free-bird, but without a nest.


BUS
Was taking a bus ride the very next morning to work. The bus audio system was loud. The cacophony was intollerable. Some, idiot folk singer singing with a voice that would make Bobby McFarrin happy and words that would even make Madonna blush.
“geramer melay loiya giya..amai chuinya dili re..tuur moone aiy chilo jainle agey aistem re “!!!!!!!!!! (crudely translates to “U took me to the fair, jst to brush ur skin with mine...but I liked that..should have come before”) Imagine my plight ??!!! Switched on ma ipod to get away from the crowd and that bloody voice..but, i dont have much to complain about the words though.
Surprise, surprise...it was Leonard Cohen on ma ipod. I never really know, whats gonna be the next song because, i like it on the shuffle. But this was really a surprise, for Leonard was singing
“I'll take u to the fair..where wild roses grow..” !!!!

THE PLAN..
Guys, I've planned a trip to Goa all alone this may. I need some time to think of my own, for my own. Not many people left to call ma own though. Just me, my backpack and my camera..n m off..

PREP...
Ya, ya..the GRE prep is going fine. I'm doing good. I have decided to prove Mr.Darwin right this time. I have decided to survive. I have decided to smile. I have decided to move on. I have decided to be me.
Heartbreaks,miseries are works of god of death. And i'm not dead yet. From the mouth of Michael Clayton (George Cloony)..”I shit on the god of death”. I will survive, the way I can.

ultimate fling...

d wreck of man''s desire ends either among d wanton herd searching fr a new meadow everyday, or in d cages of memory , while lady-o-cause-of-dis-nightmare smiles..fr she has done her job..

[3D Max, render time--6 min, Intel Atom processor, created on 9th Feb 2009 FOR 14TH FEB 2009]

Blue Hotel...

i meet her in my dreams..every night..
and wake up; to reach for hands... that are not there..
 
love is a twinkle in her eyes.. lost in a sunset..
promising an agonizing morn....
 
forever torn apart; from the haunting fears of my heart...
fragments lay littered...in my empire of dirt..
 
bitter seeds of pink memories..  
breeding thorny weeds...and the end of a few impossible stories..
 
starry dreams..the star too bright..lost my sight..
the joker..the fool..and an impossible quest..
in the process..lost my wings..and my nest..
 
the remains of my ruined desire...
dim...gray..in half lights..will never tire..
stay well my angel..stay angel..

d crap"dom" king writes again..

“Women came in and went out of his life like spring blossoms. He never gave a second look to anyone potentially special. But then, the only august daisy he cared bout, wasn't meant for him. The unbridled love bubbling like a hot spring; ready to erupt into a geyser; all assembled in his tiny love cage was never appreciated or recognized. The highway rush was heavy, but nevertheless; it was a one way traffic. Every now and then, he was thrust into dim lit tunnels without a ray of light shining and guiding him through. It was just the faith that he was on his way; the right way to meet his august daisy drove him out his fears and hesitation right through the tunnel. But alas, he found his daisy in someone else's hand.”

Just another piece of constipated writing as expected from me !! Shame on me. Every single time I begin writing something out of my mind, I end up writing from the bottom my bloody soaked up heart. Trust me, this heart ain't soaked up with my tears, but with the tears of others sympathizing a perfectly normal heartbreak; which “I” molded to fit in the frame of a losers cribbing and pathetic existence. And, in the end I begin writing about princesses, knights, demons ,an over jargoned journal of a loser, punctuated here and there with colons to impress and words which better suit the dictionary rather than the real life.

“Get on over it, you silly ass.”, thats what I say to myself and forget just that whenever I'm drunk. “Why do you drink so much ,Abhi?”, asked my silly simpering colleagues. I said,”To forget a certain rose, for I have seen the rose as well as her thorns”. Bullshit, its all crappy words to impress.
Yes, i admit; it started just like that. But now, that poison has become my LSD. I drink because i LOVE to drink. Thats all to that. To hell with memories, I love whiskey.

My evenings start with the stupidity of putting down my continued “stupidity” in words, just like any other writer specially of the inferior sex; writing their first book would do. The difference is, I know I'm stupid. Just notice my pages, you wont find the difference though. I still start my sentences with “I” and end in “me”. Where is the perspective in my bloody writing ?. Its all me and me and me. Then I realized, its better to bring up a HE to disguise the ME. Unfortunately, that HE took over ME and my stories. So I am back into ME. But, this time time I promise, I will not use the jargons and words that mean shit to the average reader; but will concentrate on the flow.

“Ya, Ok I suck..wheres ma whiskey????”. The last drop of whisky makes you allways feel back on the road of reality, and reality never haunts me. The worst mistake my life has ever done, is to let me live. And, what doesn't kill me, makes me strong. I am bloody strong. I need not live in booze and memories. Instead, I can mock at them. And, thats where lies my intentions as of with this book.

to crib....

Cribbing bout pressures which lead to a certain or a string of failures seems so absurd at times, yet so common a practice for others. Often it so happens, cribbing is a personal choice you succumb to rather than choose. He has been around guys with a theory behind everything, even failures which they knew was inevitable. He couldn’t be one of them. He wasn’t even the guy who would go for a kill and win his success; though talented he was in his own way. But then, the talents defining him were useless without the zeal to go on. All he had was a natural talent to “move” on. He was the wine and everyplace he went was his unholy grail.



A sojourner without a mission,

A scavenger without an ocean,

A gypsy without a band,

A stubborn waste without a helping hand,



He moved from place to place,

Searching for a certain kill,

Sliding down emotions,

And time stood still.



Mission bell too loud,

Yes, he has a mission,

Yet nothing to make him proud.

Suicidal gypsy and an ardent scout.



Smoky minutes and fluid nights,

Sudden shudders and flight of frights.

The question still haunts,

“Do I deserve what I sight?”



The present wears a smile,

A bit too fragile,

Weeds on his coming dawns,

While half lit memory haunts.

Talons of fear...

Scared to death he lived like panthers on his trail; running around bushes through the dim lit woods right from his birth. The fear wasn’t inbuilt but certainly a consequence of the prosaic but subjugating burden of expectations flowing down the hierarchy. Time to time; the rebel rose to fight, but succumbed to the monotone. He was four and was scared of school for the first time. He is twenty-four and is still scared, because the school and the education and the fear haven’t left him yet. The polished high priced education has converted him into a machine to deliver and none to gather, the petals of the flower he calls his own desire. There’s no more a bud. He saw his flower of desires grow but a few vital petals sort of completion.

He remembers the day. It was cloudy, about to rain in an hour or so. The trees seemed like giants with arms raised in sync to cover the windless sky. It didn’t matter much to the kid. He wasn’t interested in the sky. His eyes were set on the basketball on the playground; a vagabond rolling in the restless breeze. It occurred to him; if and only if the ball was made of stone or steel it might not stray away. What seems a rather childish observation makes him think even today. Roll we may in the winds of time, but do we want to. Or do we roll in fear of being dubbed a misnomer. He can never be the stone neither the steel. He began to hate his life, for everything he couldn’t do right.

They say “I live in a world of my own”, but none of them is a Picasso or Keats. All they do is live in a world where they can call things their own. That doesn’t at all make them unique, rather another class of hypocrites who make lies sound real. He couldn’t even be one of them. He isn’t scared of the world, neither the creatures they call humans, but a chill runs down his shaky spine when someone whispers “life” in his ears. He has none left to rejoice. He has found a bucket full of talents in him, but none to shape into reality, for he is scared; that might dub him an outcast.

And all he wanted to do was drive along the country highways, give a damn to the milestones, be blind to roadside directions, crush a few beer cans, fill up forgotten words of CCR with silly hums, be happy with the wet earth pillow and swear to the heavens for giving others a dull “I’m happy, I guess” or a “I’m fine” life. The prisoners locked in their self made cells.

Eve

This time I am not going to take the blame,

I am not sorry again,

You can shut up or scream,

I’ll take a turn if I meet u in my dream.

My emptiness answered,

A few dreams splintered,

End of my comical love,

Long flew the cupid and the dove.

I talk of my misery,

You begin with last night’s eatery,

Sleepless nights, tender arms, when true colors blend,

Yet to the foreign prince,

I’m the pretty face you call friend.

You were the huntress, in a killing spree,

The knight on his knees was what u wanted to see.

But ma cherie amor, this knight has many a battles fought,

The sword aint rusty,

Beyond dim lit memories is the dawn of the risen lord.

I didn’t know you, don’t want to,

I cant control you, u aint my destiny.

Flight of memories and its brutal demise,

seems no more a compromise.

You are beautiful, hence predictable,

Yet so irresistible.

The clear water is lacking clarity,

Believe, you were my tragedy.

Was it the distance that mattered,

Or my fact driven logics left a few emotions battered?

Was it the fatal hesitation?

Or was it the foreign prince, a better breed,

Left my fragmented sentiments even more shattered?

Will crawl to the side,

Out of sheer fright

Where I wont expect,

To find someone special.

No more Marianne, no more.

I’ll create my destiny or my tragedy.

But will not live in the legacy,

Of my prima donna.

Silence..

Silence is the worlds best strike force..furtive in movements..effective in ultimate deliverance.More importantly..it has no such weakness as succumbing to compromise…the only compromise,the only negotiation it lets other enjoy..is the negotiation between two soldiers waving different colours.

And when that strike force strikes,it strikes more effectively on keens rather than on strangers.A child expects forgiveness,words of wisdom after a gentle rebuke for his actions not pertaining to the general norms of a well nurtured childhood.A man is a child to another man who is a child to another.Age is no marked deviation to the pattern of down flowing affection.

silly thought...

what good is a farmer who cant predict the weather..what good is a machinist who never knew the size of the screw…what good is a soldier who forgets to wear the helmet…

what good is a boy who knew to do it all..but never was one of them..

Monologue

Phases they say come and go. The plethora of phases flowing like the winter breeze through the northern woods; I say brings no warmth whatsoever in the most likely circumstances when u feel, the breeze might ease a bit. Now it seems easier for me to take consequences as it is. Reactions come late; logics take the first blow though the heart still bleeds the first blood. The perpetual sense of being the cause of a string of unfortunate catastrophes prefixed by my own misjudgments and unplanned decisions makes a non believer like me start believing in something; the triumph of mediocrity over rations. I still survive.

What surprises me is not the unalterable past or my sudden introspection sprees; but the behavior of the future shaping slowly to be another set of subjunctive history. Wouldn’t say others come with their dice loaded from the stars, but at least they have their own dice. Playing with the dice of my forefathers; close if place is concerned, far if heart is concerned; makes me feel like the torchbearer of traditional triumphs who stumbled midway. The flame I couldn’t follow; neither borrow; it’s pretty obvious I couldn’t carry. The last fumes never guide me now. I never had the chance to throw my own dice.

It’s true; won’t have to say “give me a reason to live”. I got plenty. But the one that matters now are not my male driven logic guided reasons, but zeal to live. Survive I may, but to live is in all a separate “thing” I cant follow. I can’t say “my sorrows come with the rain” lest I be dubbed the idiosyncratic psychopath least interested in living and hence a complete cynic sans the foolish suicidal tendency. I can’t even say “I’m lonely”. That makes me common. Don’t want to be one. Hence my last resort lies in throwing the better half of my already rotting mind among creatures I call friends. That still doesn’t make me friendly; but at least I have lived long enough; sentenced to boredom and loneliness. A few friends make no difference but I do appreciate the ripples they create in my stagnant monotone; even if for a moment.

This isn’t a book to mesmerize people with a sufficient flow of words with no substantial substance in it. Rather it’s an unformatted, unorganized journal of the observations I made on life. The conclusion I drew about life though; pretty much remains the same. It’s a monotone. Unlike even the worst class of writers playing with words; I have revealed the conclusion and I’m not at all in ease with that. When the first chapter is such a bore; I still will carry on with the risk of being a bore. After all; life is a bore. But then I must say; where one sees garbage, another sees food. I don’t promise any bemusing rivulet of happy waters in the pages to come, but certainly would try to maintain the flow of observations which may or may not be that amusing either.