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.