Viagra

A sudden rush of adrenalin and vignettes of growing up. Why did he grow up? But wasn't there an innate desire within him to grow up when he was still growing up? But that's natural to all. I mean, there is no psychiatric problem. The gradual transition from a kid to a boy and boy to a man to an old man is daunting him. He is more worried about the fact that he may have to use viagra.

No probably it is over simplification. He is worried that he'd die now. Does viagra signify that? Was it this that he was so worried about using it then? Is it all over? Suddenly there is not enough time.

Suicidal

Don't think twice. Load your gun and just shoot!

The cream inside your brain will not scatter itself to raise people's anxieties and expectations. Neither will it result in upsurge of conscience.

Your life is as futile as mine. Compromising with potential is also harakiri.

Seduction

The underpants were still wet. Yes, he swam in them. Oh and yes, sex too. A little clumsy one under water.
That was her dream to have sex under water. She learned swimming and diving for that for three months, so that she could make the moves smooth and erotic and concentrate less on remaining afloat. She had to learn breathing tactics. The trainer asked to avoid smooching under water.

Three months was good time. She had no strategy about who she would have sex with, but this season, she HAD to do it. Who knows, how long one lives.

He preferred the bed always, but the woman was volumptous. And she was removing her clothes. She was going to the river - under the waterfall. He was not aware of the fact that she was aware of his presence.

Spaces

Just because you learned how to type, you won't be typing whatever you feel like, however bizarre it may be. Why not? I have not used your gigabytes of space for that. Let me be in my space. Do you even realise your space? Your borderlessness may create umpteen confusion for you and for the rest of us. You better decide upon and mark a line with end points touching. We call it area. You can call it your space.

Blizzard

Blizzard.

The chill in the spine.

Blizzard.

Alaxander Pushkin.

Blizzard.

Uptight jaws, clasped hands, cojoined dentures, the still body.

Blizzard.

Ghosts of yesterday. Silent sounds of the stream. Symphony of the wind.

Blizzard.

One death, one marriage and a dream.

A Dead River

I crossed a dead river.
No it did not dry, it is simply dead.
The most grotesque murder that I have ever witnessed. But strangely nobody asked me to testify. I heard there were many more eyewitnesses. A few million to be precise.
They all heard her screams-all day and all night. She would wail when her skin would be peeled off her body. She'd plead for mercy. But the murderers were cold blooded. Their eyes were red in fury and lust.
Oh! Didn't I tell you? She was was brutally raped before being put to sleep. Yes, gang raped.
I don't exactly recall her name, and I don't know if any police record exists.
I overheard a name that kind of started with "Y"
Why?

EMBOSSED

It is painstakingly painful and overwhelmingly overbearing to bring clear clarity to your writings. You must be abominably obnoxious to adjectivise everything that comes your way. But then the temptation of opening the thesaurus is so vehement that all you have to do is right click and scroll to synonyms.

Is life just an overemphasis of what we think it is, or it is really what it is-an overemphasis?
We seem to believe that that additional adjective would ornate the actual content, while there are so many other reasons to believe the other way round. (...TO BE CONTD.)

Criticism of Criticism

"What are you writing?"
" A criticism."
"Of?"
"XXX by ZZZ."
"But that's a criticism in itself. I mean the title you are mentioning is a crticism of the first phase of writings by YYY."
"I know, but since ZZZ published her criticism, I am entitled to write a piece criticising it. Do not forget we are critics."
" So, who criticises yours? Have you planted anybody yet?"

At 16 degrees

She stared at shadows cast on the light by the lampshade. The wavy patterns on the walls were poetic. But she hardly knew how to describe them in poetry...sea of light...waves shimmering through shadows...dark waters...the wall as a liquid canvas...??? Phew! It was quite a task, considering the fact that she took almost twenty minutes to come up with these lines, the meanings of which, she knew not. She just thought they were 'poetic'.

She likes her workstation. The blast of the AC at 16 degrees, the blast of her stereo playing Katie Melua, fumes on her either side-either from her ashtray or from the cannabis incense stick. Intoxication is in the air it seems.

She is a teetotaller.

Incomplete sentences from incomplete articles in draft folder...

Smooth. Candy Talk Murder To choose the most p...

I am not there because I am physically not there. ...

I bought my art kit more than four times in five y...

Her face cracked up like dried

Temptation
How many times do we buy notebooks because the cov...

It is like standing on a barren land equidistant f...


S-E-X
Commericialisation