It is that word again

It is nice to see people having faith, it makes me at times, believe in life only for a moment maybe, but well, it is just heartening to see someone having a reason to wake up the next morning. After every door gets slammed to your face and after you decide to abandon your family, since they'd abandoned you first, it's not easy to stay away from becoming a cynic and a cold-hearted creature, or so I believe. I have always been an escapist myself and no I'm not ashamed of this fact. It's just how I've been. I tend to find the easier way out and I get out of every other thing that is trying to mess me up, and this may come at whatever cost to me or anyone else, it's just my way of dealing with life. Hence, becoming a cynic and hatred or non-acceptance have come easy to me. I choose to detest everything that makes me uncomfortable, pushing the blame on that something, getting rid of the guilt factor and then rest, or attempt to rest in my dark hole.

And then you meet a person, who might have achieved everything, who might have reached the desired place, but there were always these needless struggles, painful battles, scars for life. And the person still believes in life, looks forward to it, even while a dark cloud gets formed in the background.

Maybe, maybe is a nice word, I just have lost it's meaning.

Path to salvation

Are you frustrated with the world, so bad that you won't give it a second thought to just fuckin' blow it away? Wait! Do not pull out your gun yet. Take a driver's helmet, hit the road, find a crowded place and start bashing up people with your weapon of destruction. What will happen is, the police won't interfere since, you're armed with a deadly fuckin' helmet. So they'll let you be and you can happily go about doing your act until a brave heart steps forward and attacks you. Let him do so. Once people understand that you are surrendering yourself to them, everyone will rush in and vent out their frustration onto you. Even a ten year old won't be afraid of you now. The 25-year old, who'd run away ten minutes back sighting the helmet in your hand, will come back in full force and start hitting you. Thus, you'll finally give everyone peace at your own cost. This is sacrifice. You might even die in the process, but worry not, you have helped today thousands of common men, by being their punching bag of anger, hate and disappointment. At least, for this one day, they'll go home happy and won't shout at their family members. At least for this one day, they won't get lost in some addiction to feel numb, as they won't need another escape.

Since, you've done some public service at your own cost, God the great might just forgive you of all your sins and past mistakes, and you'll be shown into the gates of Heaven. And since I've helped you attain salvation, the ultimate Judge might just forgive me of some of my sins and my chances to enter Heaven, just might have increased.

Bad Leg Day And A Memoir

Had a bad leg day. That means I broke my leg. While I was bowling myself out of nervousness, my head told my body to suddenly jump and jump it did. But since my body wasn't quite ready for it and my mind was still lost in thoughts of my work in progress, my body landed awkwardly on a twisted foot. I screamed for my dearest mommy and my mom said she's busy on a phone call. I screamed to tell her to rush to the living room corner immediately, but she screamed back telling me to stop irritating her. I did not give up and I screamed again. She finally hung up the phone and came to the living room. Seeing me on the floor, rolling in pain, she immediately declared "fracture". I mocked. I was to be proved right. Though in pain, I still went off to slavery serve my client. However, my boss was nice enough to tell me there was no work and I should just run for home before people return from their lunch break. I obediently left for the day within an hour of reaching work. But I did manage to nearly break a coffee mug as I dropped it off on my injured foot, on my way out of office.

On reaching home I was forced to go to the doc and he told my dad, exactly what I wanted to hear, "There is no need to worry, he's perfectly fine. Just take rest for a couple of days." Home again, I was running around happily everywhere. But laziness had already filled me and head has been shouting sleep, well, it's been shouting that for more than a week now, yet I fail to listen. Anyway, important message for all the overly-concerned beings: I am perfectly fine now, thank you very much for your concern. And for the rest not-so-concerned: You know I love you too :)

Of other things, Goa was brilliant. I did not know I possessed the talent of staring at the passing vehicles for an entire afternoon. I loved Goa for numberous reasons. One of the main reasons being, the Goan dogs love me, or at least they don't mind me, not one bit. Even in the drunken-most of conditions, I wasn't barked at. In fact, I actually went on to pat a stray and he happily kept following us everywhere and I did not mind one bit! I remember, a lifetime ago, when a stray was following me and this dog-loving friend of mine at Churchgate, I was petrified at the thought of a stray accompanying us and yet I was being told, "Oh ho! Poor dog looks so scared. Look at his tail, it's between his legs, shows he is scared." Trust me my friend, I was more scared! Anyway, Goa was freedom. Drinking on the streets, with passers-by shouting cheers! Where else do you get that? I was never in my life, asked if I wanted a "pussy" so openly, by a stranger. Beaches were nice. They were practically empty, except for a couple of a tourists here and there. Driving for sixteen hours, laughing at a helpless idiot stuck in swamp, Patrick's human side and serious wisdom, getting drunk at 10am, sitting on the rocks and staring at the sea undisturbed for a good three hours and not having a single thought to worry me, going to a helipad to help a friend learn to drive, I'm not going to easily forget that I was free, even if it was just for four days.

tears baby, tears

Sadness decends upon the proper earth as my guitar strings break and the club I supported for the evening lose out to the over-rated, much-hailed red-coloured-cheats. Darkness fills the night, not only cause it's 9.30pm, but also 'cause the busy boy hasn't got a single e-mail since 4pm.

No, trust me, it's driving me insane. Usually, I'm so much in demand, I am the guy who gets an e-mail every two minutes during the daytime [including spam, but who cares], and I'm the guy who wakes up to a minimum of ten unread email messages and mind you that's a minimum number ten for you. It's been 4 days and counting, I've just received about ten emails. What has happened? Why this sudden quietness? Has the world forgotten me? I am feeling fuckin' abandoned here! What in the name of Holy Satan have I done to deserve this? Comics.com and Getafreelancer.com were the only two regulars who mailed me to ask me if I was doing fine, rest of the websites, they've just acted as if they don't care. Why? Have they erased me from their mail-list? Should I re-subscribe or will that seem too desperate a move and will attract un-needed attention?

Insecurity is filling me, to the point of agony. Sigh! Don't abandon me internet, cause I need you? Can you feel my tears, can you feel my fuckin' pain? Can you feel it, baby? Can you see me bleeding? I even went on to check my spam folders and surprise hit me like a kick on my nuts, NO SPAM! SONOFADOG! No one's selling me viagra anymore? No one's selling me a seat to some MBA course? No more "Enlarge your penis" ads? Don't they no longer think I'm worth it? Am I really losing my audience? Is this damnation? I thought I was important, I thought I was something, I believed them when they said "Devil is within you, all you need to do is find Him in you" and I did, or at least I thought I did. I hailed Him, I praised Him, and yet, and yet, just ten emails in four days.

...and we let it slip away

It's funny how we keep drowning in our self-created miseries, day after day. The world which we once held on to, how it keeps on slipping away, well, how we let it slip away and then we scream for help and we keep screaming...



... while we keep on drowning!

The Self-pity Song

All these feelings get you nowhere.
All these emotions take you nowhere.
Make me mechanical, Oh god,
Automatic, self-destructible.
One shot! Bam! Bam!
Bullet, help me travel as straight as you,
In a singular direction, with no deviation.
Kill all these distractions,
The things I can never get.
But I want and I want and I want
More out of this life of imperfection,
All I feel is deprivation
Of life, as good as inexistence.
My breath, I feel asphyxiation.
As my dreams, my love, my life, they all have come to kill me.
I preach renunciation, yet I act so dependent.
I hate me so much and I hate what I am.
I'm a shadow of my yesterdays
With a glimpe of a dead man,
I never intended to be.
So cure me of this disease called me,
Or help me die in peace cause I can't bear
What I see when I look in the mirror
It shows me a face that I want to so destroy.

I am fuckin' polite

The very first question A asks me, when I meet him at the office gate is, "Hey, how are you? How is everything?" Now, I barely know A, and our longest chat had lasted for 38 long seconds, if not less. I have no interest in discussing anything with him and I am pretty sure it's vice versa. Yet the question "How is life", as if expecting me to be completely frank about my state. Now, I know it's nice of him to ask me this question, but keep it for once-in-a-while-Hi-replacement, he can use a simple "Hello" for everyday usage. But no, it has to be "How is everything?" I know he expects my standard reply to be, "All good, you tell me" but on some days, I swear I feel like telling him, "Dude, I've been lying to you all this while. I am not good. I've never been good. My life is so fucked up, you know..." And knowing very well, how busy A always is, I would love to go on and on and on and on and on, about my sad, fucked up life and crib in his ears upto no end. Then I'll go and ask "how is everything" to him, the first thing next day. But then, I am really trying hard to be a nice guy, well, at least on the face of it.

On other news, I hate to declare the sad truth of life. It takes minimum 9 minutes to make decent two-minute Maggi. Yes, they kept lying to us over all these years. They never included the time taken to search for the scissors to cut open the packet of Maggi and the masala, the time taken for the process of cleaning a utensil and filling it with water and the time taken to serve the same in a plate. I wonder how we ever believed them in first place!