So Far Away

This Dire Straits Classic is dedicated to all those who thought that I was worth atleast a farthing

Here I am again in this mean old town
And you're so far away from me
And where are you when the sun goes down
You're so far away from me
So far away from me
So far I just can't see
So far away from me
You're so far away from me
I'm tired of being in love and being all alone
When you're so far away from me
I'm tired of making out on the telephone
And you're so far away from me So far away from me
So far I just can't see So far away from me
You're so far away from me
I get so tired when I have to explain
When you're so far away from me
See you been in the sun and I've been in the rain
And you're so far away from me
So far away from me
So far I just can't see
So far away from me
You're so far away from me

When Will I be Released

Forget the meaning of life. All I want is life(or death for that matter). My only question is what will give me a release. reading doesnt nor does writing. I used to like believing that it does because it was fashionable to think so then. Maybe I think otherwise because it isnt fashionable right now. Im not sure about anything. All Im sure of is that the moment I write some of the crap that I dole out and take I feel like emptyin my lungs sticking up a rod in there and filling my windpipe with enough liquid to choke me so hard that when I scream, my body is blown into so many parts that nothing is seen to the naked eye.

Music was thought to be a saviour. But I listen to music that I like which is so positive and full of energy that all I can feel is shitty just because Im devoid of all that energy and watever I feed comes from an artificial source which like all shall be exhausted on day and Ill just burn out like a GE bulb supposedly the longest lasting bulb on the planet. Stupid people think they can market a bulb when the sun is eventually gonna burn out.

What is the truth is that there is no substitute to happiness. And what is the truth is that that there are some people in the world who will always be happy and there are some that who will always remain sad. Ofcourse by always I disoucnt the time amongst that stupid guy/gal who told sat with you everyday dreaming your dreams and telling you that lfe is not an abyss and there is a bottom in the it. You will eventually hit hard surface.

But it never happened.....I still cant feel the floor....Im gonna be sucked more...I think Im free falling.....but the term free has lost its essence....Im jst falling like being bound to the earth.

An Important Learning

lesson learnt in life.....life can only suck.....coz tht is how gravity is designed....if it were the other way round...all men would be supermen and would start flying with their underwear on display.

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In the dark

It was his second joint of pot. There were only three that were available and the second was almost over. He was already tripping but he wanted it so bad. With great reluctance he had his last drag and put out the last butt of the rolled cigarette. He lit his third and looked at the bottle of vodka that he had carried to the terrace. It seemed all hazy and translucent. He could not make out if any was left but he turned the bottle upside down into the glass nevertheless. There was a last sip he could savour. A great relief ran through his face.
The night was moving real slow now. The cars, the people all seemed like a TV commercial shot in slow motion. It was starless and cloudy and it could rain any minute. He could sense the rain from the smell, but that didnt bother him. He wanted to get drenched. The rain would look more beautiful when it beat down slowly he thought.
An airplane was about to land in the airport nearby and it somehow seemed to please him. Looking at his last sip he decided to gulp it down with the dramatics of drinking poison. Smoke soon filled his lungs. He could feel it. Somehow the smooth and slow operation of marijuana was an uncontrollable orgasmic feeling that he couldnt hide. It was about to erupt and his ears started hearing some music as if played from a distance.
There was still a distance to go before complete ecstasy and he wasnt to let go just as yet. Suddenly the music translated into words and he could here Tom Petty shout "Im free....free falling". The lights went out in the opposite building and the lady in the house gave him a stare of suspicion before closing the curtains.
"Im not committing a crime you know." The monsoon breeze grew stronger and he turned around to find a stray dog who had found its way upstairs. "You think your gonna find shelter out here just because your on the top. Fuck off you son of a bitch." He smirked and bent down the terrace.
It was high and he was on it. The ledge was urging him and he climbed. The eagle arms were spread and he took a deep breath like it was his last. Contemplation....the urge to jump and it could all be done.
No but he had some unfinished business. He had a last drag. The cigarette lay there next to his glass. He got off. All inhaled at once...the final ecstasy...the last breath...fully intoxicating.
It was done and he climbed the ledge again. Suddenly th woman infront opened the curtains and turned on the lights. The dog barked. He was finally afraid. And he heard Tom Petty again.

Emotionally Mugged (Was I?)

Let me tell anyone who reads this blog that I'm just not myself. I'm a guy who thinks a billion times raised to the power of an unimaginable amount before I spen more than 10 bucks on any item. Be it an auto ride,eating out,watching a movie,or spending on my clothes, money has always been of prime concern (the only exceptions being books and music). I would never entertain any kind of beggars who come in all shapes and sizes of varied ages and sexes. But something happened today Im still in a state of shock.
I was walking down as usual after dinner and after another routine lousy day in office, when I was stopped by this dude accompanied by his wife and small kid. Speaking in broken Hindi, he asked me if I knew Hindi and told me he was from Aurangabad and had come for a Tirupathi visit via Bangalore. Adding the story of how his father got missed in the train and how he had to now go back home. The long and short the guy was now begging for cash to go back home. Of all the people and in my 11 years in Mumbai I never spoke in Marathi but I see myself doing so with him. Very soon I further surprise myself by asking him how much he wants. He gives me the precise figure of 230 bucks. My hands start to hesitate, because I just don't want to entertain this chap but I still find my hands reaching for the pocket and looking for 230 bucks. 400 rupees just withdrawn from the ATM and now I was going to shell out more than half to people I'm almost sure are trying to dupe me. What was over me I do not know.
To assure me he offers to send the money to any address that I state. In the end I just resign myself to my urge for charity which was simply too strong at that time. I just couldnt stop myself I had to. I removed 230 bucks, and as if in an assurance to myself I tell him "See if you are trying to fool me, you are not doing a good job of it. Ive never removed 2 bucks im mylife as alms and this is 230 bucks....half a days salary. I value it simply because I earnt it. You may squander it now but somehow I have to give it to you. You have a kid and so take care."

IM NUTS BUT WHAT THE HELL SOMEHOW THINGS SEEMED LIKE I WAS THE MAN FOR THEM. SOMEONE WHO COULD SPEAK MARATHI,HELP THEM OUT. I DONNO WHERE THEY ARE NOW AND IF ANY OTHER SANE(I THINK IM SANE) PERSON IS SHELLING OUT 230 BUCKS IN SYMPATHY. IT WASNT BECAUSE I FELT SYMPATHY, IT WAS SOMETHING MORE THAN THAT. I HAD TO....I SIMPLY COUDNT DO WITHOUT.I JUST HOPE THE 230 BUCKS ATLEAST HELPED THE KID HAVE A DECENT MEAL AND IN THE WAY IF THE GUY WHO IS THE ONLY EXCEPTION IN MY TRACK RECORD OF BEING THE STINGIEST MISER GETS A BOTTLE OF BOOZE, IT DOESNT BOTHER ME.I CAN NOW SLEEP OVER IT.

Frustration Unleashed

People often accuse me of thinking negative and being a pessimistic. Well could anyone tell me what reason I have to be otherwise with whatever has happened in my life. I have never been allowed to pursue what I'm interested in, not even come close to it. If it were my parents stopping from doing so, it would have been fine because then i would have run away and done it in anycase. But, the biggest fuck up is that life itself has never presented an oppurtunity.
Life has got me landing up always in the wrong places at the wrong time. I came out of college only to land up in a shit hole called a Software Company. Thats not it, theres more. I will remain in this shit hole for another year atleast, and I can fuckin do nothing about it. Yes you heard me right I just can do nothing. I just spoke to someone right now. The realisation was a thunderbolt. Two fuckin years of my life wasted and flushed down the drain, and what do I have to show for it. This blog and nothing more.
You know if I had choices and I behaved in a ceratin way this is what I would prefer.
1. If I were seeing images of dead people I'd rather have people tell me I'm schizophrenic than have people tell ghosts exist.
2.If I got a job as a stripper, I'd rather have people tell me that they come not for entertainment and just for artistic fulfilment than otherwise.
3. in short I'd rather have people tell me that I'm crazy and not seeing the world right than have them tell me this is how the world is.
I just reliased that whatever i have written till now is full of contradictions. Well that's because I've not seen the world without contradictions. I'd be greatful to anyone who could show me this less faulty world people keep promising me about. Whatever I've written till now does not come from pessimism. At this point of time all that I have is hope and optimism without which I just would not be able to write. GOD has not won as yet. He's had all the battles till now. The war will be mine. However cliche that may sound it is true. I will win. Lets see who the fuck stops me.
Ill die a pauper but not quit trying. Thats me. So FUCK YOU LIFE!!!! I can do without you. What does it take a 5 rupee bottle of cyanide. What can you do to me then??

The Funny Feeling I Get When I Read

Most people I know can associate a certain feeling towards reading, which may range from euphoria, to excitement, to boredom, to plain indifference. However, unfortunately I haven't been able to place my feelings with precision when I carry out this activity. As far as I have identified the feeling, reading for me is not a passion but an obsession. I hope you can understand the difference between the two. It is always a very conscious effort that I make to read objectively whenever I open a book, and I have never been successful in this endeavour.
Whenever most of the bookworms start devouring a book they start getting vague hallucinations in their tiny brains which is accustomed to try and picturise all that they read. I am no different in this respect but the only other thing I start doing along with fantasizing is that I start thinking of spinning a similar story or I start cursing myself as to why I couldn' think of such a story in the first place. I start feeling helpless beyond a point and there is growing sense of inadequacy. Now I'm guessing everyone would agree with me when I say that inadeuqacy is not always a bad feeling, especially if you are driven to greater heights just to compensate for this kind of inadequacy. But whats bad is when the drive gets converted into a compulsiveness turning you into some kind of freak who keeps talking to himself in the nights and gets nightmares with fairies flying all around and sweet melodies playing in the background. When beautiful weather starts making you feel sick and you would rather have the sun beat harshly on your face than the tender sprinkling of the first few drops of monsoon, that is when you know that you have turned insane. On second thoughts, in such a case you would never know you are insane but only be subconsciously aware of the case(atleast I presume so...for I have never experienced my subconscious under any conditions).
Paranoia has crept into the way I read now, and I get the feeling that now I couldn't even read a Penthouse letter without commenting on the style that it has been written and the realism that it brings out. After reading anything I try and put pen to paper or rather fingers to keyboard and jot down whatever I can, but I've begun to realise that I am missing out on the true joys of simplistic reading. The simple juiciness and succulence of words as they flow describing how pools of water caress the hair of a damsel dressed in pure white and kissing the petals of the last yellow flower in a beautiful autumn monrning when the earth and heavens become one as if painted by the single stroke of that magical brush which only God could have created. But I can't help myself now and my only joy is in the constant struggle to produce something closely resembling art or something which closeley resembles a piece of writing. Success in this department has been minimal to say the least, but I guess I owe my thoughts and dreams to what I read. And so whatever funny feeling I get when I do so is welcome as long as I dont stop doing so. I hope you get the picture.