Arbitariness and Gibberish

Okay, now its almost been over a month that my pen hasn’t kissed his paper(no, it’s not some kinky metaphor and  for some reason I believe that my pen is a male, it’s not deliberate),pondering over this very critical issue I stumbled upon the fact that my life has entered into a phase of dormancy where I am slowly giving up my urge to rise above all and slowly succumbing to the malignant conventions of the world. On the next thought, “Is it that bad?” , I have been asocial for a while now(not technically) but I have cut most of my physical interactions ( we all have ,all hail social networking  for its services against the mankind )as I wanted to figure out many aspects of lives with epiphanies coming from endless soliloquies, but sadly there were lesser moments of truth than remorse and maybe after spending so much time cramped up in this confined  space I realized that I have been wasting the most precious thing I have in my possession , time but on other thought what could I have done with the aforementioned period of time to save me from the remorse I’m currently facing and also reliving the said period is also impossible, thus the futility of my remorse struck me.

Regret is one of our strongest emotions, and it is regret that teaches us many a valuable lessons in life and maybe makes us more human in the process but as I said the futility of remorse overshadows the handful of good it drops into our barn. There isn’t really any need of iterating the clichéd phrases to back and bring out what I’m really trying to bring out or am I really trying to bring something out, there is no purpose behind this post ,just plain gibberish, a little yammering ,rambling and some other fancy verbs related to talking.
What is it coming to, what are we working towards and does the working really hold some point? I shall write something, a handful of you shall read it, eventually it would get better and maybe someday I would be able to make a noticeable contribution to literature and then I shall become one with the dust, did I actually gain anything, maybe a brevity of recognition and a taste of sub-luxuries of what the present world has to offer. Who would be able to recognize my decomposed corpse from the criminals, rapists, the people labeled as poor, uneducated and others after a dozen months of lying under the ground.  Even my priest wouldn’t guarantee my salvation and even if he does, would I be able to come back as a ghost and kick his ass by haunting him, in case I do not receive eternal life? What is the point of living and craving to survive  in such a world of pointless existence where we earn bread by doing what we usually hate, hate what is hated in mass opinion, and have opinions that reek of desperate and worrisome  cultural aspirations. Would caring about it create a difference? Would creating  that difference be worth an effort? At the end of times , everything, our existence on this dwarf blue planet in the inessential corner of this colossal, colossal  universe might be nothing but plain gibberish.

Liberation

I splashed my face quite a few times ,maybe there was something more than sleep that I wanted to get rid off but water cannot help you wash away despondency to which I was newly acquainted with, it’s  such a strange place to be in where fey things point and laugh at your unusual ways of dealing with the daily facts, unusual ways of finishing chores, unusual ways of being unusually unusual. I found the mirror but the image wouldn’t follow, it points and bursts into mute fits of laughter, I found it quite comical too.

There were earthen chains bounding his feet and his hands were cracked, he had bloodshot eyes and I could see the amount of pain in his mirth, the crackling of chains but I could hear and they made it sound like the saddest music that my ears had ever witnessed. I cried with him until I ran out of tears and  till my eyes were in acute pain and my throat was parched.

I assumed a fault and I asked him the reason, he mouthed that birth was the cause there was no other treason, he knelt and begged to set him free but I realized my helplessness, I was weaker than I ever could be. I just closed my eyes and heard so many voices ,many of foes, many vices but amongst all one was the most firm, it was the call of the morning bird which nests on the tree beside my window, it bellowed the dark away and beckoned me with authority, I followed it and it took me to a pool whose surface jeweled with clarity. I drank to my heart’s content, my throat was no more parched. I looked into the pool and the man returned a smile , he then stood and spread his arms again and I dived.

The Mocking Turd

The point I step out of my humble abode, all I could hear about is people ranting about the social anomalies and the desperate need to find cures, a bunch of wussies, wetting their cunts by politically stimulating foreplay. Is being or posing as an intellectual the “in thing” these days that everyone is hell bent on trying being sensible nowadays or is it  just a part of growing up where we try to tame our primordial instincts by forcing a transition to turn into a subtle and gentle slave of acceptance. I feel like ripping my hair off my skull when I’m between these pansies riding high on their quest to become a condescending douche that could look down upon the other and feel good about himself/herself by showing the other person down.

Gone are the days of discussing each others sexual exploits and amorous adventures in a general meeting of friends, exploits of the latest Operating Systems for their mobile phones are discussed instead, majority of them would just have a superficial knowledge of the subject which they have acquired half-heartedly to be part of the conversation. The fear of being left out and becoming the social pariah has overshadowed our originality

. This is what we have achieved in the name of development and evolution. My heart just breaks to see that how uninviting and cold their hearts have become , we would have never in our wildest of dreams imagined that this would become of us but here we are stabbing each other with words sharper than blades and letting our souls bleed in the process.

Just the other day I visited a very interesting page on Facebook: the purpose of this page was to give people a platform to confess and speak what they could not in the real world without their identities being disclosed ; a very nice concept indeed but people go to such depths to fill the void of their empty lives, the guy who manages the page leaves a note at the end of every confession in an attempt to belittle the confessor and treating himself with an immense high of egoistic assurance that he/she is better than that person and axiomatically has the right to throw a handful of scorn at the poor unprivileged bastard. It’s all fun and games according to this new breed of internet bullies.

That is just one of many unfortunate instances, I have faced many in my days, over lack of intellect, choice of music, not being quick-witted and what not, I guess being the “nice-guy” is not “in” nowadays, you need superficial displays of your abilities to be socially acceptable and if you don’t you’ll surely be bullied and made to eat dirt. The heart of man is becoming colder by the day and it wouldn’t be much time before hell freezes over. ;)

When I saw Music die.

In tales had I heard that, far on horizon,
you can see Music play on a fortunate day.
So I set out to test serendipity and there was he
but Fortune had just finished running her most callous play.

Blood kept oozing out of his gashes,
he was stabbed in scores.
He kept the tune going uninterrupted,
all the pain in the world wouldn’t stammer his chords.

It wasn’t a song about mercy ,
nor about vindication from I could tell.
hands but strumming the strings vigorously,
a song of grim by a minstrel from hell.

On his strings they were running,
an array of free flowing bright red pearls.
may be the abysmal addition made it more enchanting,
meanwhile, wounds expectorate, blood hurls.

Life was but giving up on him, on knees he fell,
the instrument was struck the last time, giving out a loud thud,
“They cut me for worthless paper, music to them is just sound”
with this he closes eyes and goes into eternal sleep
leaving nothing, just but silence to weep.

Satisfaction Guaranteed (Short Story)

“Motherfuckers, these sadistic corporate whores” yelled Mike on the top of his voice, I lay there without even raising a brow as the fear of him assaulting my time with his rants always remains engrossed within but still being courteous as I was, I uttered a soft “Why?” and before those words could leave my mouth he had started-“ Bastards again activated an unwanted service, this time the devil is ‘Daily Astrology’, firstly who invented this shit of a science or whatever it is, I had a Maths exam last week and in the paper it read “you will outshine your counterparts in every field, today is your day”, Yes, undoubtedly it was my day, but of being brutally sodomized by an otherwise worthless piece of paper, makes me tremble when I think of those 3 hours, gave away that evil parchment to bhelpuri wala and these soul sucking bastards have compelled me to spend 30 bucks on the shit, Fuck Astrology!, Fuck Vaayutel! , let me call the customer care. Oh! Turns out I have just one freaking rupee left in my account and these Dementors charge even for calling the customer services ,can I borrow your phone?”

“When has my denying ever stopped you, go ahead”, I mumbled and went back to savouring the sweet melodies by Advaita. “These people must be having secret tournaments to decide who would make the most complex labyrinth of customer care service , so fucking arduous to get to talk to one of their executives as if they are the fucking Queen of England and we are their petty subjects and now it’s almost been over a minute and this mechanical whore keeps telling me that my call is important to her, then why doesn’t anyone pick up the fucking phone.” Mike kept whining.
“Hello!”
“Yeah , to fuck with your fake gratitude man, jot down my number and tell me why did you steal money from my account ,9876543210.”
“What the fuck man?, The lowlife just hung up on me” ,I shook my head to make him believe that I cared.
“I’m not giving up on this easily  ,let me just juice my phone up with adequate moolah and by the time I’m done with them their ears would be regretting that they ever picked my call.”, said Mike with that grin on his face that always makes him look constipated.
After 27 minutes
“Hello, what the fuck you ingrate, one of your Oompa Loompas  from your fucking Apokolis hung up on me the last time I called to file a complaint of siphon.”
“Yes, I will lower my tone and be careful with my words when you’ll return my fucking money you son of a bitch”
“Yeah, this is the number I tried filing a complaint about you soulless pederast, I’ll fucking drag your ass to the court and fillet . . . . .. hello? hello?”
“Fucker hung up on me again”, and just as he finished that line , his phone beeped twice indicating the receiving of two consecutive text messages and I still resent that I did not get a camera then and treasured that look on the face of Mike , fumbling , he tried was trying to find solace by grabbing the other end of the couch,and I, out of curiosity snatched the cell-phone away from his hands, there were two messages received in the thread:
“Ithe-uthe,hum hai Kutte by Hiney Singh has been activated as your Ear-tune. You have been charged Rs.60 for the service. Thank You.”

“Thank You for contacting Vaayutel, hope you were satisfied with your interaction with Amit, we at Vaayutel work hard to have your Satisfaction Guaranteed”

I fell off the couch laughing.