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.