This piece moved me… so piercing, and full of emotions…


‘Do you not like me sober’?

She wanted to ask but the words were glued to the back of her throat and she couldn’t cough it out. So she lit another cigarette instead and watched the smoke swirl around them, filling the air with toxic fumes.

It takes precision to kill yourself slowly. It takes discipline to commit to socially acceptable suicide. It’s like a traditional sort of depression, the mild kind that people can ignore without feeling guilty. Common and predictable, easily manipulated with medication, and doesn’t end with a noose or a gun shot. No one will ever discover her corpse and say it was a tragedy. They will have seen it coming. They will say she deserved it.

When her body is laid out in the coffin and her legs don’t quite fill it out, they will say that it’s a shame she didn’t try harder to…

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Alcohol & cigarettes, it’s tried and tested. Parties, sex, people getting wasted. We get older, we keep messing up, only to realize our shit’s fucked up.

Why do you indulge, asks an innocent tot. Damn it, I say, I need to smoke some pot. Is this your only escape? Yes, but don’t you make the same mistake. Does it fuel your creative fire? Sure, soon as I climb a little higher. Does it make you happy? I do feel a little trippy.

What about all those books you read? What’s their worth over a bag of weed? What of your dreams, and your wanderlust? Have you crushed them into dust? There’s no comparison, silly kid; indulgences don’t last. Today is a momentary high, tomorrow it’s all in the past. Books are eternal, wanderlust never fades. But some dreams don’t come true, and once again we’re trapped in that maze.

Cavemen, machines & science

Do you sometimes go into a trance and imagine that if a caveman were to materialize in today’s world, how astonished he would be to look at all this modernization and technology? After the initial shock of seeing buildings stretching towards the sky and cars zooming at the speed of light, he will probably fire off questions on the science of it all, the cars, phones, television, computers, audio video recording, and even basics such as internet and electricity. Would he even understand the science behind man’s creative genius developed over the centuries? Would his brain be evolved enough to grasp this massive information overload within just one lifetime?

I also imagine a reverse scenario, with me as the caveman, all signs of evolution forced back into the past, and nothing to do but be either the hunter or the hunted. Imagine being responsible for further evolution of mankind and for laying down the very foundation of science! I’m not sure I could do it; stone age was simply too difficult.

Predators, fire, stone, tools, clothes, fences, wheel, cultivation… Is it possible that in some form, you and me were also part of these brainwaves that triggered man’s future genius? Somehow I don’t think it likely, seeing as I don’t even get along so well with machines in the present day. It’s a story for another post, but I’ll admit this much with great audacity I’ve never actually understood half the discoveries of science. Sure, I know what I learned in school, I know how things run on electricity and what fuels the engine in my bike. But would I have been the person to make those discoveries, had I been in their place? Probably not.

I know I’ve never faced a situation where survival itself is a prerequisite to living, but knowing myself well enough when it comes to creative discoveries in the field of science & technology, I will say that if I was the time traveling caveman in the modern day world, I would have been baffled with the explanation for internet & electricity. It is with a heavy heart I must conclude that the ‘stone age me’ must have been eaten by a tiger while wandering too far from the tribe. I hope that at least the tiger enjoyed his meal.


I tell him he is like a sponge, absorbing me into his very core. He breathes in my thoughts, impulses, tears, reflections, intuitions, desires. I paint weird graffiti on the walls of his mind, and he tells me I fascinate him. He wants to be closer to me. He wants to possess my mind. But I do not know what I am more fearful of relinquishing – my sanity or my insanity?

We talk of love and emotions, and the moon, the stars, the wind. He believes me when I tell him I love him, because I believe it too. Every moment is our moment, isolated from the rest of the world. But then the moment passes, and suddenly I am nothing and I am everywhere.

He tries to paint the insides of my mind, but it keeps wandering and slips from his grasp. And then I hate myself with a fierceness which he can only match with his anger.

Perhaps love does exist only within our minds, and what we should be saying is, “I want to love you. So much…”

The drink that makes people crazy

It was a balmy summer evening, and I sat in the balcony reminiscing about a time before we corrupted ourselves, when it was okay if nothing made sense. The memories got thinner and thinner as I dug deeper into my lost childhood, but there was this one particular memory that stood out.

I was about 8 years old. During the school recess, a bunch of us sneaked into the grounds with a stolen matchbox and took turns lighting a match and staring hypnotized into the flame. This was by far the most dangerous act we had done in our young lives, and we kept throwing surreptitious glances to make sure no grownup was around.

And then one girl in the group suddenly did something we had never seen before. She flicked a match, brought it close to her lips, and cupping her hands, pretended to light a cigarette and take a drag. Then she looked up at our dumbfounded faces, and burst out laughing. We fell silent, unsure of how to react. Heck, most of us (me included), had never even seen a cigarette, having been raised in completely conservative & protected environments. And then there she was, the new girl in our midst, just back from the Middle East, and already basking in our new found admiration.

After recess, I sat next to her and quizzed where she had learned to do that. She coolly replied that her mother and father were used to entertaining guests with drinks and smokes while she was supposed to be fast asleep inside.

“Drinks”? I remember asking her. “Like coffee or juice?”

I was so naive back then. Drinks were hot or cold, depending upon the season, and for us kids, even coffee or milkshake was a real treat.

“No”, she replied laughing. “You know, like beer?”

“Beer?” I stared at her blankly. I had never even heard the word, and being an avid reader, I had a high regard for my own sparse vocabulary back then.

“Yes. They drink it and then start acting crazy?” She helpfully explained.

I don’t remember anything further of this incident, and my knowledge on the subject stayed limited until I became of barely legal drinking age, after which I learnt rather too quickly and too much. I don’t know whether it was the feeling of stupid incomprehension, or because it was the first time I had heard of ‘the drink that makes people act crazy’, but this memory has stayed in my mind clearer than other memories of school.


I stub out the cigarette and stare in silence as the embers slowly fade, leaving me in complete darkness. There is no escape from morbid thoughts, and I cannot help but think that this is how it all ends. Someone will watch the light in my eyes fade into nothingness. What once was, will be no more. A lifeless pile of cold flesh and rotting bones crumbling into dust. Someone very dear will ooze moisture from their face and vow to never forget. And one day their memories will turn to stardust, dissolving from their fingers and toes into nothingness.

Stardust is men who fought bravely, women that loved fiercely, children whose laughs echo through the wind. It is broken hearts and slayed limbs, silent melodies and blank pages, colorless dreams and an empty hourglass.

And yet I get this strange feeling that I am but a mere spectator. Yet there remains a tiny, fragmented, futile hope that as stardust, we are immortal.

Breaking patterns

I have a little nightly ritual. I turn off all the lights, put on some Warren Zevon, light a cigarette and walk around in my underwear searching for some inspiration. A pitch dark house fascinates me. It puts my brain on a hyper-imaginative mode, especially after alternate doses of Murakami and high fantasy IF games.

But this night knows it’s going to be a long one. There’s that appalling number 25 looming bright, an impending quarter life crisis, a sudden fear of death, a bucket list getting longer by the minute, some thousand books to read, a hundred things to learn, and the seconds ominously ticking away…

I used to wonder about people who have spent entire lifetimes perfecting the making of a shoe, or a watch, or bread, for crying out loud. Didn’t monotony hit so hard back then, or is it just generations getting more restless? Perhaps those people are the ones who finally understand the deeper meaning of life, not us soul-searching nitwits who will never really be satisfied.

As for me, I know I will always be making and breaking patterns just to create news ones all over again. It’s almost scary that I’m this easily fooled by my own ever changing self.

In the past two weeks, I have developed a new pattern. I wake up at exactly 7:38 am, and it always interrupts an exciting dream. It amused me at first, but now it pisses me off. Perhaps, sleeping at 5 am will break that pattern…


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