“Nope, I used to have one, but it got stolen.”
“Ah, you can always get one for free around here”
“Well, you just gotta find the right dumpster. You never know what you’ll find.”
“You see my bike right here?”
“I found it in a dumpster. I just fixed it.”
“Well, good luck finding one.”
“Thanks for the tip. Have a good one.”
Happiness December 17, 2012
Final Blow December 13, 2012
Several days had passed since the last time he uttered a word. He then spoke,
With a shattered mind, shattered by years of resentful thinking,
And a chiseling stammer.
Spattered all around the interiors of his consciousness,
Laid his thoughts, patiently for approval, depressed from self oppression,
They appeared to be painted in a murky brown.
As the words gradually fell from his mouth, he began to realize the truth,
Truth about time, which had been on his side all this while, but had now abandoned him,
He had nowhere to go, but to crawl back into the mole hole that he called home,
Infested by a lack of identity, the space underneath his roof was his only comfortable retreat,
Lit with dim bulbs that made a hissing sound, matching the pitch of the tinnitus that filled his ears,
And dust that formed miniature nappes everywhere, as if it were an old shut down furniture shop in the middle of a desert.
A stained chair, a blinded window, and a panel of foam draped in blood-red acrylic,
Were the only things that he spoke to,
They had become his most reliable friends,
Friends, not because they were interesting,
And reliable, not because they gave him good advice,
But because they were always there, and seemed to listen to his cries,
Perhaps by choice, or perhaps because of their inability to get up and walk away.
It didn’t matter, he was just happy that they were there,
And continued to stay, seeming patient, like a rotting carcass,
Waiting to be devoured, cell by cell.
They were the only things that felt valuable in his minuscule existence.
Tortured by the discipline that he lacked, and mislead by a deceitful critic in his conscious mind,
His body was nothing more than a shell for his effervescent soul,
Fragile it was like a rusty nail in an unfortunate ship that sank to the ocean floor a thousand years ago,
It wavered in a state of constant turmoil brought upon by masochistic introspection,
Lacking any form of comprehensible meaning, like a train, ’twas, derailed and mid-air before collision, and explosion.
As the syllables gradually inched their way out from between his tightly clenched jaws,
He got his final beating. Beating from her.
With a stern gaze that could melt mountains as tall as Everest,
And a potently misguiding smile, she slathered on him pesky compliments in a pretentious effort to ease the blow that which he was about to receive,
Approval she gave him, with plenty of hollow adjectives, and then,
As if with a cautiously devised, carefully designed plan, she took away everything, one by one.
Dreams, hopes, passion, glory, confidence, strength,
Until nothing was left.
In the new found nothingness, he sat, more silently than he had ever been,
As a spark of disbelief ignited a nervous smile on his mute face burned by her gaze,
His lips trembling, and eyes twitching. His face, it effortlessly dropped.
And sunk, deeper into the comfort of his feeble shoulders,
The joints in his neck crackled, as the bones in his body seemed to slowly dissolve,
As if her words had alchemically altered his blood into some potent acid.
His presence was becoming hastily microscopic,
Everything that was a part of him was now nowhere.
His body seemed to exist, but everything within it that was him, was gone.
Amidst the dreadful inflictions, there could be sensed a subtle scent of love.
It was the tough kind, so tough that it seemed merciless and sadistic, even hateful.
It had to come to him and kill him someday, eventually,
And today unfortunately was that day,
The stars had aligned, and cast upon him the curse of his own misdeeds,
Misdeeds? Perhaps. But not quite as much as the deeds that he had never done,
The promises he had once made, to himself, and to the universe, and to this woman,
Had been broken due to his inability to participate in reality.
To her it seemed abrupt, but he knew that it wasn’t so.
For he witnessed the process, A gradual process, like that of taking away sand, one grain at a time.
Taunted inertly by the tone of the voices in his head.
He pulled whatever little was left of him to utter his final words,
“What next?” he cried, as he fought the poison flowing abundantly in his veins,
Slowly beginning to drift away into the abyss of hurtful disbeliefs —
“Well” she said, “you are done.”
My White World. August 24, 2008
I would live in a white house. The rooms would be painted white inside and white walls would surround me. The windows would be sealed to maintain the interiors clean and white. I would want some walls to be glossy and some walls to be matte. The floor would be white, maybe polished plain white marble with no stains on it. Clean, pure, white. They would all have to be the same white, not off-white or cream, pure white. Everything in the house would be white too. I’d have white carpets below my white couches and tables. The furniture will be elegant and simple, no fancy curves or fancy borders. Simply white. I would want everything to be perfect, the corners of my furniture, the corners where of the walls meet, they should all be perfect. No cracks, no signs of wear, no aging, no hand prints, no odd marks, no dust and no dirt. My backyard would have white shiny plastic trees, and I would have thick white carpets in place of grass. There would be a thoughtfully placed pond with crystal clear water. It would have white leafed white lotuses, and white water lilies floating in it. In my living room I’d place white frames with glossy typographic art printed on matte white paper. My library would have all books with white hard-cover, and stacked neatly, alphabetically organized on my white book-shelf. My bathroom would have soaps, and bathing liquids, and other items in white containers of the same shape and size. The kitchen will have white drawers with clean white utensils. My dinner plates, silverware and napkins will be pure white no fancy prints or silly colors. My bedroom will have a white bed, white work-table, and white posters. There will be a beautiful white guitar, and I will be sitting right beside it wearing my white suit, admiring the beauty.
pig. August 17, 2008
im sitting here on my soiled matress, uncovered and muddy lying on the floor. ate tuna, and drank lots of water. nothing else to do, but think about mundane facts of my existence and how i always will remain wishing for more. the windows are all broken, and the cheap blinds rattle in the wind. the ducts carrying cool air are rustling, and their screws have come off. the room smells of boxes and old paper, and i can see a patch of brown in all of my vicinity. the fridge has stale vegetables and rotting chicken. small drops of frozen blood from the uncooked steak paint its interior. the carpets need cleaning. it has a stain for every story that was made here. but i’m fine. i like these smells and the pungent odors, and i have a feeling i’m going to miss all the shit i’ve loved eating all this while. see you second home. can’t wait to get started with my third. grunt. oink.
Universal Soul June 30, 2008
This existence is like a glass of liquid with millions of undissolvable particles floating around in it. This state of the solution is the instant of existence that we classify as ‘living’ or ‘life’, agitated, lacking direction, something that seems to be completely driven by randomness. Eventually, the particles settle, and collect at the bottom of the glass, and join to form a single mass of matter there. This is the after-life, all of our souls unite to form this single universal soul, it knows all, it knows what you ate for breakfast today, what I ate for lunch, who you’ve loved, whom i’ve hated, your bad and good, my bad and good, it knows all. You, I and all of the ‘living’ creatures become this soul when each of our earthly existence comes to an end. After we become the soul, we realize everything, as we will know everything that has ever happened. If A stole something from B, the universal soul will have the memory of both A and B, it will remember what it feels to have something stolen from, it would know what it feels like to live with the guilt of stealing. It will exist in pain because of all this knowledge, but everything balances out, and so it remains motionless, stiking down at the bottom of the glass.
ribbons around plastic blocks June 29, 2008
you are a child,
you know nothing,
your subconscious mind takes you to worlds
not of this earth
not of this organization
but you are growing
and you cant stop it
although you currently don’t want to
you want the cells to multiply
your brothers have taunted you
and your sisters have pinched you
because they are bigger and dumber
you are vaguely confused
you are fuzzy
you are growing and you’re beginning to like it more and more
you are now connected to this earth
and have lost all your connections with the other, better known worlds to you
but you don’t care anymore
because you are amazing at forgetting things
but you have not forgotten one thing – the tower
you have been building this one tower with thousands of blocks of plastic
building it by placing one block over another
one block every day
hundreds of blocks a year
you have lost count now
but you are doing it as they told you
placing blocks and tying ribbons around them
the tower is so tall
you can no longer reach the top
now is the time to destroy the tower and build a toy for yourself with the pointy pieces of plastic.
but you have been converted by plants and leaves and chlorophyll
you have no other urge but to continue building this tower
you can see it
the blocks at its base which you placed when you were enjoying colors
is now cracking
its rattling and gravity always hated you
but you are still tying ribbons – colored white and brown
you are also using plastic tapes now
but strangely, you still don’t know why you are building this
its not the greatest thing ever
everyone has their own,
why do you think anyone’s going to look at yours?