A run through the lousy city (of only little aid to serious travelers)

In this gross weather, bereft with continual droplets scarring the coarse, azzurish air space, one needs some poise to tread, to walk down the stretched sanitized footpaths of this mess of a city. Scantily clad women with hammered heads fumble on these. The akin monotonous chains of greasy eateries makes it ever so gruesome, so much more when amidst the incessant pubs, beer bellies protrude out, and the black smoke from a zillion cigarettes escalates unassumingly towards the blue vacuum higher up.

Not to undermine the profoundness around, largely bearing on the heritage, I like the dry sense of humor of the place, so popular, but have not come across in real time of witty blokes except for this one stand up act, I went over to last Wednesday, where they are supposed to be.

One seems to stink of primitiveness, in this European matrix, at least a guy like me from a different land mass, and when people confront. Weirdly yet I am less wary of their mindsets. Since culture is carved of reflexes and tendencies, there is little mettle in it. For bare thoughts and good humor feed on rather more. And exactly there the stink in me takes leave.

I am scarcely influenced to talk about the bodily traits of the city, for I find a town in conversations with people in places and pubs. There is a jolly lot of trash to sightsee here, but it does not invoke any inhibitions. To rendezvous gentle natured women, or if not to meet high worth sarcasm sufficiently do invoke. Yet I must go around for that’s how humans learn. I am a human so I must cling to this. I realize even in such a narration, crumbs of self loathing have meandered into; guess London is of only timid help. All it does is to harbor it better.

I realize I have not talked about the Theaters, the London Eye, and the White Chapel, British Museum and the other museums, my Asian puerile citizenry in South Hall and the like shit, but I do not intend to venture and even if I do, I do not intend to pen them. Sluggishness and lethargy is so affectionate; I would not let it down.

So much for the bastardly town.

when the inside is at work

Stashed back forcibly I am. It is sickening to not have her in vicinity. I feel smothered beyond reckoning. Jotting incessantly is a decent mate in these wee hours of trash. Yet I do not think it is. I am sure not. Each word here ogles at me, spilling blood and nastiness on my naked face. This is psychologically being inert. For it does happen to many people, but in such breath as to smudge all the ongoing, I bet I am the zeroed one with the ugly fate.

Now, you could hang me for this one. For whenever I pen, I pen but of self loathing. Her non presence is consequential of wiping off of creativity and of hollowness in depth as well, in that I can only narrate the underneath rather than inventing to entertain. So trivial are my tendencies, so jammed is my thinking chain, that if ever I do surface with something like this, it only stinks of a wet wound instead of exhibiting solace of prose. If you can’t see, I am gasping for some oxygen now, I am missing my beats. Is it the fluffiness of love, has mushiness drenched me enough now. Am I soaking in the candy floss, seeking her affection?

I should eat my breakfast first for the transitory tongue pleasures assist quite in shying away from the robbing thought of her. I should gobble some English staple shit. That ought to mend some. (The undercurrent: That tramples miserably too. the cereals, the bread, even the celebrated jasmine tea is insipid to the core. this is not a material world for nothing material can cajole you, when the inside is at work.)