Give Yourself a Break

Life means existing, doesn't it?

But does it mean mere being present? The phrase 'Get a Life!' has a lot more implications than what is observed from just the surface level.

Most will argue that their job keeps them away from 'getting a life'. Sometimes, I too fear that this life will end before I know it, and I will not be able to do all the things that I have wanted to. Some of these things include:

1. Lying in bed in a vegetative state for at least a week.
2. Act in a play.
3. Travel all over India. And the world, someday (I hope)
4. Read all those books I had promised myself I would.

All of this will only be possible if you give yourself a break. Take some time for yourself. While having a job is important, it is also important to have peace and stability in your mind.

Short Stories

"You know what your problem is?"
"What?"
"You have no passion in life."
"What do you mean?"
"When was the last time you did something you truly loved?"
"Last night. You."
"I'm serious!"
"So am I, honey. I love you."
"You will never change."
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René stared at the Eiffel tower. He squinted his eyes, and everything was a blur. He opened his eyes, and everything was clear again. He didn't think he would ever see anything more beautiful.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked, her voice dripping with honey.
"No," he smiled, looking at the Eiffel tower again. No, nothing would ever be more beautiful.
-----------------------------------
"All the wine. All the wine is all for me!" he staggered into the room. The front of his shirt was soiled with vomit, his shoes caked with mud. "Woman!" he hollered. "Come here, let me fuck you."
Shauna was in kitchen, slicing onions for the roast. Robert loved roast.
"Woman!" he hollered again, stumbling into the kitchen.
"Hi Robert," Shauna smiled, her knife firmly in hand.
-----------------------------------
"I don't think I will never love again."
I say that to myself a lot. Not since Jasmine have I ever felt a need to love someone. Sure, she left me, she dated another guy. I think she may not even remember me anymore. I have forgotten her too, her memory slowly fades away into some part of my existence that I don't like to think about. I'd like to think she's gone away completely. I still keep her severed head with me, though. It gives me company.
------------------------------------
"I like you."
"I'm into S&M."
"Whip me."

Untitled

Image by Tamsila Mihai

Sitting on a wooden bench, a pond of blue glimmering in the bright sunlight. Ducks flap their wings, hunting for those breadcrumbs Mrs. Belemy had scattered for them.

The air smells crisp and clean. The sky is a blanket of blue, dotted by white, fluffy clouds. There is a woodpecker on a tree nearby, the silence around punctuated by its constant tek tek tek. The weather is pleasant—not too hot, not too cold. However, a strong gust of wind blow Sarah James’ skirt in the air, much to Nick Patterson’s amusement.

There is green grass, flecked with yellow-orange fallen leaves. Two lovers sit under a tree, their bodies entwined, their lips meeting in soft kisses. At a distance, a family of four set a long pastel sheet on the grass. Johnathon smiles, as his 3-year-old Rickon tugs on his trousers, motioning hims to pull him in his arms. Johnathon obliges, and Rickon gurgles happily.

Ned leans against a bench, a hardbound book in his hand. He adjusts his glasses and flips a page. There is a hint of a smile on his lips. He is reading Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. He has read the book thrice before. It reminds him of Shelby each time. He pauses for a moment, remembering her red, pouty lips, her pink nipples, those eyes of grey. His pants feel tight all of a sudden. Deftly, he adjusts himself, and continues reading.

Ronald is on the other side of the bench. He takes a sandwich out of his bag and offers you one. It is a robust sandwich—ham, cheese, mayonnaise, and what looks like bits of lettuce. You never really liked mayonnaise. You nod your head no.

There is something about Ronald, but you cannot point out what. There is something wrong. Like a crescendo, it rises in your body, your heart races a little faster. You realise you don’t like Ronald.

Ronald offers you the sandwich again. This time, he pushes it into your hands. This terrifies you, and you want to run away. But you find yourself unable to move. Instead you throw that sandwich into the pond, the ducks immediately flocking towards it. You hear whispers around you.

“She hasn’t eaten in days.”

“What do you think she’s thinking about?”

“I don’t see a way…”

“Lob…”

The voices trail away. They aren’t there anymore. Just Ronald, holding the sandwich, nudging it towards your mouth.

You close your eyes tight, clench your fists. A dog barks in the distance.

You open your eyes. It’s gone. Everything’s gone. No ducks, no benches, no lovers, no books. No Ronald. It’s just you. A white room, a glass of water, a half-eaten pill.

And a sandwich.

The Death of Coherence (1/2)

There are a few things in life I have suddenly become quite adept at. The first of them involves staring at a blank document, and quite easily filling them up with words that suddenly make sense. Mostly it's just long sentences and fancy words, but I now find it quite easy to write a 500 word piece, in maybe, 15 minutes, tops.

I, of course, attribute it to my job. My job requires I write. It also requires I photograph. But mostly, write. So that's what I do when I receive my monthly assignments. I get the topic, I stare at a blank Word document for roughly 10 minutes, and before I know it, I have already finished about 1/3rd of the assignment.

Distractions abound a plenty. Earlier, my number one distraction was Facebook. But as time passed, and after a billion layout changes, I just grew weary of this website. Of course, I will also give credit to the people on my Facebook for my disinterest in the website. You see, the people on my Facebook are, to put it lightly, moronic. Too put it harshly, they are a bunch of buffoons, and I find retarded monkeys more coherent than they are.

My anger stems from the fact that most of these people just do not know how to spell, or construct a sentence that makes sense. To support my 'bunch of buffoons' theory, I present you with the following proof:

1. wer u made all dis stffs?
2. woz dat???
3. If a "HUG" represents how much "I Love You"... I would Hold "YOU" in My Arms "FOREVER"....♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
4. The mst depressed moment in ur life is nt wen u r sad, its wen u hve lots to tell bt u dnt find tht spl 1 to hear u

By now, I'm sure I've lost whatever reading audience I had. I apologize. But put yourselves in my shoes for a bit. This is what is sprinkled all over my timeline. Every day. It's either insane emo-ness, or grammar, and thereof, that leaves me dumbfounded.

I thought of quitting several times, but social networking is a crutch, and it is very difficult to let go. But most importantly, if I quite Facebook, I would never know my friend's birthday. That shit is important.

Since I could not go on any longer on Facebook, I turned to twitter. But more on that in my next post. Till then, stay pretty.