Maybe my parents are giving me so much freedom; I mean a little freedom because they are lazy. Maybe being parents they need to raise the bar if it means to keep me under control or whatever it is. Chilled out parents exist because they are lazy. Lazy to demand. Chua’s parenting doesn’t shock me.
Orwell made sense. I don’t like 1984 though. Power is to cause suffering and humiliation. I want to read Madame Bovary!
Sultry hall,
idle fans,
girls of the nineties
stupid clock,
the crow and I,
at the desk.
Both blinking at the questions.
Crow flies away.
I can’t.
Maxwell’s Silver Hammer- outrageously bestial.Thank god for insanity. We need it. Thank god for the Beatles. We need them.
Everyone talks theories. I’m no exception. Reasoning out, questioning, substantiating, validating, justifying and a whole lot of things. Then? Either be proud that you made ‘sense’ or just live in denial-be oblivious to the fact that you aren’t capable of making ‘sense’.
But why? Is making sense that important? Maybe, if people are one’s priority. To make them understand. There. Be vague, use fragmented sentences and they are like “What?”
Sometimes, I don’t mean what I say. I, nevertheless, continue to say what I don’t believe in simply because I make ‘sense’. Making sense is easy. Either just agree completely with the person or disagree with them. Even when you don’t have a stance.
Somewhere, it is crucial to be ambiguous. So that I don’t lose my sanity in trying to make sense and avoiding what others perceive to be insanity.
I want to say something else. This isn’t what I quite mean. Sigh. Words are a handicap.
And I just wish there was another word for the letter I. So long for a pointless post! Over :)
Crash early in the morning. 7.09.
Not really. But he had a better phone.
Even better than mine. The paper boy.
The old man. Scaly palms on his withered cheeks.
Waiting for the wine shop to open.
A dustbin. That creature with a woman’s Kurti on.
But not a woman. Quite the opposite.
A work beyond the boundaries of gender. In the dustbin.
Loud laughters. Two ever-standing men.
Burnt by time. The skin peeling. Worse than a Banana.
This one here.Typing it out.
Showing off. Saying she is looking over these mortals.
But wait. There is someone behind me. Watching.
Mocking my writing. 
Annoyed.
It blinks. The phone.
Annoyed.
Writing gone awry.
Annoyed.
The backspace button. So addictive.
No one reads it.
But a notification.
Annoyed.
Looks arty.
Writing with no feeling. Numb.
But it looks grand.
Annoyed.
It is a fad not to make sense.
A bag. Torn. Unattended.
Two lines written.
But the backspace. So addictive.
Sebastian Barry. You write like me.
Strikethrough exists. So use it.
Sometimes there is no such thing as originality. Everything seems to have been said before. So why not copy paste random unconnected sentences? Wouldn’t that be poetic? Random sentences, in their original fonts ranging from the ‘Orion’ and the ‘New yorker’ to ‘a word a day’ and ‘a phrase a week’. Nothing original, nothing mind blowing. Just average.
Goodbye to a Chinese patriot,
As Shakespeare might have put it - it was a daft idea.
A father grasps at the nature of wonder.
An intimate encounter with really old trees.
Why Did the Unemployment Rate Drop?
They are made of flesh and blood.
They call it “The Girl Who Pays Our Salaries.”
We turned off the lights and shut down the computers and shuffled off to bed.
Inquiries into a damp and diminished landscape.
Is language a problem for you? Do you write poetry in French?
Heartache tonight,
Don’t Run Out of Money in Retirement,
but I’m curious to see what I’ll do.
We won’t share your email address with anyone.
