Illusions

She heaves a sigh of relief.

It was necessary to bring this to an end. She was under an illusion of individuality.

And then there were mistakes.

And there was a life.

How many more illusions she will need to break before she can call her skin her own?

Options

Conflicts will never cease to end.

Rich or poor.
Comfort or pain.
Sex or celibacy - haaah!

For some things there is no conflict - you are simply left with no option.

The larger game will be creating these options.

Did I End Up Becoming a Writer?

Okay, let's rephrase. Did I eventually become a writer? Did I or did I not? Do we think that we would become writers? That's all we would do when we grow up? Write? Is it essential to publish what you have written? When do I start my own publishing house?

"Wait a minute, did not you just say you wanted to write...now you are saying you want to publish? Let me do a reality check for you. Writers cannot publish and publishers cannot write; because there is a huge capitalist structure that works between these two worlds. You have to run a painstakingly long and complex marathon to reach from one end to the other. Hold on, you are supposed be an artist, aren't you one??????"

Desires

She stealthily observed Anne. She was lying next to her on the bed catching up her favourite late night show; occasionally switching channels during ad breaks. The television screen was the only source of light in the room;  it lit up the contours of Anne's cleavage. A sheet was covering her waist below so Uma could only imagine her bare legs. The sheet over Uma's body concealed  the changes that it was undergoing; the stiffened nipples, the wet vagina. She could hear the sound of her own gasp and feel her dried lips. Uma got out of her sheet and walked towards the dresser and started looking for her lip gel in the blue light of the television screen. That's when she felt a pair of cold hands grasping her waist from behind. She saw the reflection of Anne's body partially in the mirror in front of her. Anne's hands were gradually moving towards her breasts. All Uma could do was to surrender herself bodily and emotionally to the burning desires she had been storing in her closet so far. 

Dream

I hogged. I smeared food all over my body...it was as if, the last time I'd ever eat. I wanted to copulate. I was carrying something within me - a rock solid tumour.

I woke up. Dream.

When did I type these words? I cannot remember. Whatever it is, I am distancing myself from these thoughts as of now. The strange feeling of non-adventure is creating a strange vacuum. I need to be away for a while. Far away from the day-to-day existence.

Sixty seconds of thoughts as I lie motionless on the bed that shook with the violence of the earthquake.

I fall asleep again. This time I burped and then puked out all that I had eaten in the prologue of the dream.

Inspiration

Finally, after producing crap for seven months, I am inspired to write again. I cannot guarantee quality writing over here because the strange nature of my job of cleaning up shit has perhaps made me intolerant to good writing; worse of all, I have lost the ability to distinguish my own good from my bad.

When I start my writing with "...I am writing again...", I know I have already crossed the edge of good writing and fallen in a pit of shit. But I have to write something before my body starts producing maggots.

While going through some files on my laptop I realized I had written a story about a girl who turns into a colour blind butterfly. I cannot remember writing the article - okay, for the uninitiated, I usually remember the moments in which I write my articles because these articles are usually produced when my mind is jamming up with a complex matrix of thoughts or there is a vacuum out there. Sometimes certain memories are so chaotic and stressful that my brain automatically pushes them to the unconscious part. In short, they are wiped out of my memory. Now this butterfly-girl story looked like a harmless piece of shit. But considering the fact that I cannot recollect the moment when I was writing it, it worries me because I must have been in a filthy state of mind while writing it.

Today I started writing after going through Anjali didi's blog - she was the one who inspired and gave direction to this otherwise unguided missile. This post is an ode to that inspiration.