brush strokes, a torn page from Walden, a notepad, a lighter, a gifted parker and half empty bottle of whisky.......

Posted by ronrage9 | Posted in , , | Posted on 1:53 AM

     The peculiarity of a revolving surrounding is that no matter how much alcohol you have in you, the revolutions at a point don’t get faster beyond that very point and even in this muscle abating moments all you see is what you shouldn’t be. From the beginning of these grossly intense moments to the very end of it, your whole life falls apart and before you even know, all the unanswered questions and messes of life are wiped off. A week full of filth and purples of life suddenly become seven pleasant days. The week which saw piling up of files in office, yet another day in solitude which single dome arduously offers, unpaid telephone bills or any other arbitrary bill for that matter and everyday hitting the bells of monotony to a rather excruciating detail and then suddenly, none of it ever existed. All I remember is that old lady at the subway who makes a call every day from the phone- booth, Henry Thoreau, that weird little man and his funny hat standing at the porch , the mirror, the fat lady singing outrageously at the bridge and my empty pack of cigarettes.





                 A sleep after the macabre times of the night shift would probably have sufficed, but when you ally with Canned Heat, the tendency is to push it as far as u can. It’s funny how your worthlessness is worth celebrating, how your maggot brain finds bliss in your own requiem. I was probably busy planning my funeral. But none of it even slightly had a hint of despair, that’s the beauty of funk—it was getting on me and I was going hubbly bubbly.





                 Lying there, I was nothing but a morbid soul, it took me a good while to figure out that the vibrations of the train passing by the subway wasn’t an earthquake, it dint haunt me anyways. There were butterflies in me, moving from my one ear to the other, my pupil were following them. I was living a thousand life times with every passing second, envying those light weighted and highly agile insects. In this moment, and off course the subsequent ones to come and also the ones gone by, I played my part of being just a human. Being human, pheww… like we haven’t been pent-up enough, the quinque senses barged in an assault rifle and atrociously shot at us. It’s not worth a damn; after all we smell dough from far but not the smell of rain or earth and are comfortably framed inside our mundane lives surrounded by disdain stares and glares.


                 How could I not love my relentless path of echoing companionship with the funk filled joints and tipsy boats and have three sheets in the wind and walk drenching in the rain of confetti… bliss ain’t it!?





    
           

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