I see me

One of the Royal parks in the middle of the town. smack bang in middle of London. I see a bench. In a park, with leaves that are half orange in colour and clinging to them this cliché rustling sound. Is this bench the ugly chic in a bar? Neglected. Its just another one amongst quite a few. Its just another brick in the wall. Too bad, I get a feeling I shall oblige it. Let me walk over and rest my ass.

Now as I sit on this considerate yet indifferent piece of sitting material, I know I am supposed to do the human 'thinking'’ To look at the rest of the world as if I were a mere spectator, and in a very showbiz style imagine and analyse the mediocrity around me. I have this obligation I feel. I should come to terms with me. I should make myself realize. Well, and guess what..it does dawn on me that we all are actually two people. One guy that ‘does’, and the other that merely watches the other guy doing as things take their course . Yes, there are two separate beings within. I get it I can watch me. Well this other guy who gawks at me is obviously uncomfortable whenever we are in proximity. Grossly. I can make that out. Whenever I bump into him on instances like wining alone on a bench in a a park, its quite awkward. At times he’s shy, but most of the times I am when confronting him.

When I do the math in my mind for all the acts I have put together uptill hence, I can well make out, I have let down this other gentleman big time. But because this other person has a body only in me, people wouldn’t be able to gauge my embarrassments in frequent rendezvous with him. Sometimes he also sits with me while other real people are. Other real people who are decent, or at least, seemingly in the math of life.

Nonetheless, I have this knack of knowingly overlooking him, but still using his feedback for defending the dismal performance of the ‘doer’ guy . It basically boils down to the ‘actions’ that I do. And those actions are inevitably executed by the guy more in synch with the ways of people.

Rationalizing it further, this would sound to be some callous banter, to avoid committing fruitful, yielding actions. Perhaps yes, but I would like to believe the guy who watches and embarrasses me. Also because he has a sense of sarcasm,and is breezily witty. I so want to stick with him. But the thing is the bastard is not very revealing of his own ideas or acts. I mean I could walk with him , but I do not know what would lie like half a mile ahead. Terribly uncertain is he. While the other one is so comfortably almost numb in doing what he does, simply because he’s quite translucent about his ways. I know where about he’s treading. If those paths do not confirm to me, it is a completely separate question. But this one knows his way out, and that is what perhaps makes me biased towards myself. My fellow human beings howsoever close will usually not comprehend this dichotomy. But then not everybody has two people in them. Not everybody is pissed off with themselves.

Gory

So folks in the guise of penning something from muse and drafting out of the box sentences, may I flicker about to jot rotten phrases? In the guise of ingenuity, may I deface the language? Would you allow me to let open the floodgates to buffoonery?
For in the guise of this inappropriate, only can I down tread the lame clock time which has just whizzed passed on me. In the process, though, to you noble soul who has just bestowed his or her eyeballs on this text, I must also be profusely grateful. But am I? Am I already not smeared enough to be expected to be sugary mouthed or any gracious. Each one of you is a star of your own little romantic comedies, and can locate rejoice, regardless of the ugliness that takes shape at times.
Allay those curves of emotions but. I wish it were, so much I do, but this is not some text which would entertain you in leisure, but a careless yet considered account of perennial dismay, of which even I myself am exhausted to speak of. But you see I will keep on with the flutter. Even the pen seems to give me a wry sarcastic expression, and tries to break away, but it does not realize, this shit is not some ink or the nib. It’s the mind that pens, pen pens the brain, so whatever the snob pen ‘feels’, may well take a backseat. Its emotions will certainly be taken account of, be given a thought or two, but would promptly be discarded; for there are more reasons in this world than there is material to write. And this shit is so true even if read back from the ass of the sentence.

Only last night, in the bar right across my hall, did I bump into some pretty females who look better than themselves in that kind of a low roof friendly bar. Symmetry on skin is som rejoice forever.

They also sell the liquor there at subsidized rates. Well beer lets you bear whilst you’re there, but not after a point of intoxication. Hapless and not helpless are the senses for what they see is but seemingly faith. Fine events usually harm more than the grave ones. Just stare back into your life events. The bad ones are bad and you know they are, for they are not robed. And if anything they bring a smile now. But when some assumed seminal event of bliss, caricatures into tons of gruesomeness, the idea settles fairly layered in the head. No moment of pure elation is unadulterated, if not by anything else, by the idea of death of itself.

Some greasiness and some pettiness

Only at times, and very rarely more, do I not repent. In the midst of a life situation (but there really is nothing called a non life situation), when rest homo sapiens of even meagre aptitude would arrive at efficient conjectures, my thinking would ram against me, and dismiss its own potential.

I understand the way out and from seemingly more in synch with life peers is to work purely on 'instincts.' It sounds meaty and sexy but how worthwhile can that be? There’s no reasoning put to use until then. Its only an uncooked piece of a stray thought lying pell mell in some weird alleys of unexploited neurons. Well, in all honesty, I still certainly would cling to 'instincts', but then my brain forgets that it must function but by those suggestions of the mind prompting at first instance. The grey organ then slips, hovers, also craves but never does it yield. And see now when the bastard does, it yields only on paper, on this some form of wood pulp. It is of miniscule utility. It did not when it could. What am I supposed to do from my own ramblings? I am clobbered by my own mesh of wishful thinking which metamorphosises into concentrated repentance so rapidly that it almost feels brilliant, in the event one can gauge this switch of emotions.

I perceive death must relieve me of this cacophony. Much because people who are dead are not seen around, and are ideally expected not to be, but I guess its still only a lame assumption. Who knows if this extends beyond my existence. For these feelings seem too homely to betray me. I use affectionate vocabulary because it is this conflict of sentiments, that urges me to jot, although tremblingly and with quarter confidence; so that I can make my roused negativity conducive to some degree. (The way people belonging to my caste would like to think. Benefit of any nature from any venture would give them solace.)

This world and I have a strange chemistry. It seems to confirm my body, but not my mannerisms! It takes me in, and yet leaves me stranded in bullying life frames, where seeking words from friends would imply diluted masculinity. Its startling how much of a slave is literature of harsh and sour feelings and green eyed jealousy, of bitterness and crudeness, of burnt and exhausted endeavours; of relishing but more of repenting, of memory and gross moments. Soothing literature sometimes also arises out of gross looking cunts, and God’s humour then I must confide, is not at least slapstick.

Enough of bleeding on paper, I shall clot. And then I must also do the regular things in life like sitting in the library and pretending to read.

More from the stinking wound. Later.

Scum

Well, the cheesiness and sappiness of this text is not embarrassing. Neither is its brutality and naked candidness. We are but lesser beings, gasping on but some celestial mess in a hazy congregation of time, and that helps a lot. Yet still, I struggle to gather testosterones enough to commit to my fancies. My fancies of penning in idleness. My fancies of blurting out the heartfelt.

Inaction when not desirable and action when, makes putting up rather an irrational continuum laden with repentance so much, that even weed flounders to get you stoned. Well, the simili is out of place, but not out of context. (and MS word, very slyly puts the sentence to its grammatical scrutiny almost always ignoring the mettle in it). Most of the people one meets are also like that. But I do not, and ideally ought not blame them. For they have not made themselves, it is some person else. Someone who seems to possess supernatural tendencies and yet thinks that majoritarian mediocrity would be a workable way for earth.

I have little profoundness in my writings, not even a wacky turn or a mystic twist. To my mind it looks like linear string of words, which is rather akin to blots of blood than prose on paper. Much of this shit is because of not being in the right kind of an affair, not getting the right break, not doing the right things even in leisure- all for pathetically wrong reasons.

Also, only a different arrangement of words from my previous pieces but the identical implication convinces me that though i can pen but only so much. Some for depression and self loathing, few soft words for the girl, miniscule for the God above who loves mediocrity, and some for writing itself. That is my own fencing which fences my fancies. And that is what I contemplate to rely upon for bread and butter for rest of my life and for recouping this monster of a student loan. But then I must not certainly err repetitiously, in a series, or must I? I cannot go on doing things for consistency in my resume. For coherence I should not smudge with the remaining lifetime or ought I.Since death for sure impends, even doing the conventional seems of little harm. But the fact is that if I want to absorb vanity by watching strangers reading my penmanship, or massage my ego in watching the known people doing that, I should do the unconventional; conventionally.

Boy, I am not sure if this would be but sheer abruptness. However, since what reason has dictated hitherto has not fetched; I may as well befriend the unchartered territory of my instincts and desert the safe harbours of comfortable logic. I may take the plunge. Or must I?

So much for scribbling on paper.

The phenomenon

Lots of grey matter there put to the trash bin. Looks like a girl in ordinary course, like the one next door, like you wouldn’t pick off the multitude, like one who wouldn’t sweep you over your feet, like she’s one of them, inhering all the tact of everyday life.

And then you walk over for you’ve met one of a regular nature. It’s only in the late evening that the deception of how all of it was only a beautiful lie stings. That ordinary lady weaves inroads, and you try to figure how all of it meandered into. With every encounter and the breezy, tiny dates with her, however, you feel those conventional butterflies in your belly. She captures all the frames of your brain, murders rest images, brutally robs your intellect and becomes desirable.
The dusky skin, the likeable nose, the frank eyes, the fake expressions and real ones, the high pitch voice, the clear syllables, the ordinariness, the energy, the care, the subtle sentences caress the thinking chain. When every other moment passes by it influences you to picture her, as if she has bought all of your time.

This all does happen over duration; however, the damage is irreparable. When you realise, like I do, that you have kind of serious one way feeling for her, the brain goes a wee bit blank. That I have a pen and a paper feels good, for her beauty reflects itself even here.

The sublime amalgamation of black and white which surfaces every now and then deepens the affinity. So much more when while talking she looks at you, and the lips only seem to synch what flows from her eyes.
She’s a congregation of feelings, much of it rejoice, and the grey shades making her more human.

Inking the sinking

I was deliberately trying to sink myself down the waters of the hazy realization of the not so accounted for universe that blankets my abode I dwell these days. The utility of this room is still discernible although not necessarily verifiable; yet the gazillion time’s larger universe drastically flounders to spell itself out with any degree of reasonableness, for its tendency of remaining stuck up there. While this trash portion of ponder lurks in my brain, the parallel irksome thought of its eventual inefficacy meddles with the monotony of daily routine. As a consequence, so far as my analysis can describe my mind (when mind says for mind, the assessor and the assessee are the same people ; which is even more vague than the elementary conception of the taken for granted universe), I conclude my bodily gestures are restrained by absent mindedness and by unheeded ramblings. This distorted orientation messes more the putting up and makes life some smudge over the plain white air. (Although the onset of run of the mill examinations do not mandatorily trigger existentialist inquisitiveness, but they must certainly aggravate it. Deficiency of cunts despite being around as many of them baffles the consciousness too) Well, mirth could still justify the rationale of existence but not its terrible mysticism.

Interestingly, this all seems unworthy of even subtle utterance when one can tread up to her place. She is sufficiently equipped to effortlessly overturn this mindless rattle. The virtue of carnal lure and the passing idea of uninhibited love make for some brilliant clock time and trumps the sweeping philosophy stated above. If one happens to freeze eyes and hang in there with her for a while, it is usual course to long for some extended time. Henceforth, the dates, disregarding the weird awareness of being unaware under the Sun, save for the certainties of a grappling material attraction, rarely materialize into smooth conversations. Cheesy blurts and philosophical puke makes for an untidy rendezvous, an erratic interaction, which will understandably not assist up the road.

I am still sticking to my bed at ten something in the morn, with my jeans on from the evening. I need to jump out of it for these thoughts are wearing me out and successfully discouraging me to walk out to see her. In no time it shall be noon when I am required to eat lunch together. As inciting as it would be for the taste buds I know, I harbor sympathy for the chef ahead of time, in that any meal with her sitting next is insipid to the core. Belly yearns for little, and the edible is no more of interest. Expressions of a face, and shrill voice are perhaps inorganic, but I can chew them for a while after picking up the cheque. She does not realize this for she can identify the hint of mint and the body of red wine on her tongue readily.

Narrow mindedness is a vicious slave of the profound perspective. I must also confine myself in those fences, for brutal truths invariably land in unmanned lands. I must fake it to get going. As it is, language is carved to speak and that continually the irrelevant only to budge to the workable. (Although I just realized all the irrelevant flutter just assumes mammoth significance the moment it helps one to get to the meat or reach the relevant. Thereby, inherently, the understanding of ‘relevance’ here is in fact flawed.) And then the natural course takes shape for some good. But if one pauses to rue over the ugly outbursts borne out of the colossal ‘before-thoughts’, nothing remains shortly thereafter but for heaps of lament which breeds more of itself which then stinks and stacks up.

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.)

Floss

(It’s about those junctures at times, where I am stranded to look straight into those endearing eyes, and nothing more, about just that.)

I would peek into them and would gaze unto you, but because they seem slaughtering, I am only chicken to make moves. Resting on rue and awkwardness are my gestures then. The tranquility in them pesters and destructs, more than violence ever would even in most vigorous of its forms. With a battered organ and cherry feelings, I may buy you a coffee, but I am afflicted much ahead of any further course.

Formulation of you in the mind requires only an easy imagination and discounted creativity. Much of it gives me an excruciating time between those sentences in my academic readings, and also ruins my food. I gobble without ponder and consideration. I coarsely feel that if there’s ever a guy who genuinely likes you, and the guy is not me, there’s little point in my existence.

You make me like me, from your likeability; while walking on those tiles in around midnight and while sipping some alcohol and so much more while aloof. This new matrix is of course the better world for my living for any contrary mannerisms hereafter would suggest mammoth absurdity. Fragrance of love has in it almost everything. My inhibitions stare at you, and please do not budge. For those eyes are spilling with delight, and for those lips are harmony, for rejoice on your face is beam. Existentialism is grossly accounted for. If I may say your prettiness in a cliché manner directly and with similes like this, I could just blabber indefinitely. However even an ounce of confession would transpire that, whenever done, He seemed to have His ways well in place. To utter the least, He did terribly well. So much of symmetry in you validates a gigantic lot.

Smell you later…chicken.