Scraps

I‚Äôm extremely good at procrastination! And today was a prime example. Blogging is less shitty than the day. Also, I just noticed the backlog of all the draft ideas I yet have to write about. Currently, I am just drifting away with the wind. Earlier, I was warned against making efforts for short term results. Its about time I heed that advice. I shall try resorting to tricking my subconscious into working part-time from now on. ūüėÄ

The morning sun was illustrious hence I basked in its warmth for an hour or two. Later came the commotion of “need-to-email-ASAP.” Hence, here I am blogging in hollowness (is that even a word?) another blank opus. Now that my net connection has been disconnected due to non-payment (yes, I am one of those people too) this might be my last post for a long long time. Not that anyone gives a flying¬†phlegm! Anyways, I came across this hilarious text earlier today. It’s called “Next Life” by Woody Allen.

In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You¬†start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you¬†wake up in an old people’s home feeling better every¬†day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go¬†collect your pension, and then when you start work,¬†you get a gold watch and a party on your first day.¬†You work for 40 years until you’re young enough to¬†enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and¬†are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high¬†school. You then go to primary school, you become a¬†kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you¬†become a baby until you are born. And then you spend¬†your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa like¬†conditions with central heating and room service on¬†tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You¬†finish off as an orgasm! I rest.

And with that final laugh, I bid my audience farewell.

 

Advertisements

My Skull Hurts

Life is drawing itself into a curvaceous pile up with hardly any options of revival and an outlook bleaker than ever. Here, I confess of my slipping down-hill all over again. Writing is somewhat therapeutic Рit sure gets the angst out. Hence this entry is nothing more than a rant of exasperation. When I am not seeking omens, tattered thoughts are stirring in my hollow head.

I officially declare myself a “Wuss of the Highest Order” since I have been grouchily whining about the pain in my entire body – thanks to the¬†rigorous¬†work out daily. Every muscle is screaming agony. I can almost feel my brain getting sore too. The most petty of movements shoot bolts of¬†excruciating¬†pain across my entire existence. For a moment there, I could even feel my soul quiver.

My snagged consciousness is treading on quicksands this morning. Nostalgia has invaded my thoughts but the rude awakening of “let-it-be” has¬†occurred¬†too. Cryptic Hint: I can’t feel it anymore. I’m reluctant to commit myself into any sort of activity today. Might as well go into a creative vacation of the mind.¬†Also, am I a qualitative soul or a quantitative one? Not that the answer matters. I have already established myself as both. ūüėõ

Here is a thought-provoking nugget that just crossed me:¬†‚ÄúThe difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.‚ÄĚ – Mark Twain. It has been quite a while since I read a classic. Might go for another Russian author again. Time for my dirty laundry-words to get another holler.

For now, I need to bask in the¬†splendid¬†sunlight and stretch a few more tendons and hamstrings…Ta!

Let Bygones Be Bygones!

There is no chapter 2 ūüėõ

Chapter of Years

You are the unflinching promise itself; waiting to be revealed, explored, fulfilled. But you waver away its embryonic fulfillment every now and then. You have entwined yourself in intricate limitations, bound by an array of hollow confusions. Your subtle, unconscious rebellion against your own words.

Yet you are the sole echo of fervid passions, of sober dreams. You marvel at your own assertions. You with your juvenile wants and fussy egotism… You are the pluck of any company,¬†striking¬†chords of inane¬†liveliness. Your never-ending sagas in a drunken stupor, brawny tales of the past. Your ability to quote innumerable instances to exactness. You are an effigy of considerate cynicism, of superlative poetry, of¬†unparalleled¬†coarseness, of blatant excuses.

You shake off the strenuous & embrace the comprehensible. You are explicitly pessimistic yet an ardent dreamer. You induce empathy yet you are a self-made man. Your symphonic ideas, mock compliments, quixotic notions. Your daunting anger. Your tendency to flatter yourself. Your sweet talk: cajoling and stirring. Your coquettishly suggestive words.

You are the man from the valley reverberating blazes of nature. You belong to your elaborate past; your clueless yet promising youth. You are vulnerable yet impenetrable. A wretched excuse of a man. Your turbulent attitude: so condescending, so arrogant. You cherish your bigheadedness. You are bound by self-inflicted imperfections. Your insecurities cripple you.You are an epitome of love.

You are a deserving man. You are just a fond memory. A mere celebration of the past.

You are who you are.