Even the Title was Empty!

You got what I am doing right?

I am going through my blog's draft articles segment to see if I left any traces of an article, perhaps inconclusive (they all are, but...) and if I could just add a word here, add a punctuation there and publish them. 

Since this was an absolutely EMPTY draft, I thought I'd utilize the space to tell you what is it all about.

Gravity

She pulled out one of the patterns. But it was glued to the rest, hence she could not quite separate it out. Instead she had mozzarella cheese like patterns clamoured to the cubes and cylinders. She decided to walk through. Her hair got sticky and was smelling of patterns. At one point she had to resort to crawling. The tunnel kept narrowing down. She clung on two symmetrical patterns and whoa! She was dangling in mid air space upside down. Somewhere there is gravity; but she had left the world far behind long time back.

She woke up with a fall.

At Random

Oh! This draft was empty! 

Commenting on a child's photograph in which he is not facing the camera

...like an elusive man he busies himself to random as if nothing ever happened...as if there never was wit, wisdom and opportune moments to be captured...and hence it is felt at each passing minute reminding civilizations of the greatness of a child's heart...

Commentary on Good Writing

Boy! Your feelings are so normal yet (or rather, hence) so beautiful...your writings are simple yet so deep. Went through your writings today, and an otherwise mundane office hour livened up. 

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.

Fainting

When you have typed and deleted almost eight sentences in a row, you realize, you are pretty close to being fucked. Thanks to the invention called a computer you do not have to feel guilty about tearing off paper after paper and throwing them all over and around the bin.

Going through the home page of your social networking site is nightmarish. You see lives of different people springing out in front of you.

495 people and their updates. 495 moods, 495 emotions, 495 statements.

They all play in front of your eyes like a montage of shots of a 1943 movie. From smiles to stares, from debates to dares, the more you scroll your page up and down, the more anxious you become. You palpitate. You become thirsty. You need a cool glass of water. You scream silently. You deactivate your account.

You reactivate. Nobody quite realized that you weren't around. There are too many updates to follow up with. One less only makes it simpler.

Jealousies

I am a jealous fat oaf. Sometimes I am jealous of fictional characters - mysterious and unputdownable characters. I wonder, how are they capable of successfully weaving a realm of mystery around themselves?

I was jealous of Howard Hughes after watching the Aviator. I was jealous because he was eccentric. I guess eccentricity is my fodder. I am jealous of individualism because I am an individualist who is unable to practice it.

Signs of Stagnation

The first step to stagnation: You smell.
Secondly, you have small flies hovering around you buzzing their tiny wings and asking for a molecule from the nurtured maggots on your body.

Tragic Endings:

Does an impending death make you detached from the jurisdiction of a community? Or do you create a community of your own – of people who have known death? I have never known what death means. I guess it is traumatic. I have never lost somebody I have been emotionally attached to. I have never been in a near fatal situation. Then I learn about people and their brush with death. People, whose fathers died as they were growing up, friends who in the past have been paralyzed – almost dead, friends’ family living on life saving drugs – blood thinners, insulin.

And then there is another bunch - the thin string of attachment to their self is what delivers them from the embarrassment of choice. But the irony is to be taken lightly after being ‘almost dead’ as is the case with most attempted suicides. Yeah, the tag of ‘attempted’ is shit. I have known people who have faced near deaths, but did not inherit the enduring sadness and tragedy. What a wasted death experience.

It is somewhat discomforting don’t you think so – to have never cradled on death. Not avant-garde, enough. Whenever I have had a stomach ache from the spice adventure I would indulge in, I’d pray – it better not be a few pebbles at the bottom of my appendix. If it is something, it better be lethal. I mean, sexily lethal. By sexy I mean, tragic. I mean who would want to die with a bull horn inside his ass?

I was also wondering what a partition would do after all to a human psyche. Oh! Did I change the topic? Yes, I thought the last sentence of the ‘dead’ paragraph was killer. Funny yet bitter. I can’t stop laughing. It is like Homer Simpson on medical marijuana!