Its 3 in the morning. From what I recollect, I have had three glasses of wine, one neat gulp of beer, two cigarettes, one milk-less tea, Neil Young's Old Laughing Lady, a book that has just passed me by -- all in the course of this evening -- to leave me all alone to write.
At this moment, I know that apart from me, the only awake is the colony night guard. The sound of the metallic thud and those shrill whistles as he does his rounds.
It's Saturday evening again -- evening, I would still like to call it.
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They rubbish words; they fill their sense; they create pain; they pass a drink; they find it unacceptable; they ensure process of death and stop; they ask what's wrong; they reassure when down; they bring the night; they kill in the morning with ink.
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It shouldn't be happening now. But if it must, it really must.
At this moment, I know that apart from me, the only awake is the colony night guard. The sound of the metallic thud and those shrill whistles as he does his rounds.
It's Saturday evening again -- evening, I would still like to call it.
--------------------------
They rubbish words; they fill their sense; they create pain; they pass a drink; they find it unacceptable; they ensure process of death and stop; they ask what's wrong; they reassure when down; they bring the night; they kill in the morning with ink.
--------------------------
It shouldn't be happening now. But if it must, it really must.
posted by jairaj at Sunday, February 25, 2007
6 Comments:
You have been churning out interesting pieces. However, the cutting edge seems to be missing. I feel the writer in you wants to remove the shackles that your mind seems to put, but somehow is unable to. The shackles can only be removed if you embrace pain and your psychological conundrums become more vicious than absolved.Cheers!
PS- Listen to Ludwig Van Beethoven
They rubbish words; they fill their sense; they create pain; they pass a drink; they find it unacceptable; they ensure process of death and stop; they ask what's wrong; they reassure when down; they bring the night; they kill in the morning with ink.
I'm in psychic sympathy
BTW, doesnt Ink and Asphalt excite you ?
And I love the thuk thuk of the lathi at night , with the shrill prolonged whistle .
trussed bull: Thank you. This is one of the most interesting comment I've recieved. I fear what you mentioned maybe right. I will think about it. Thanks :) Aah, Beethoven, its been a while. Maybe I should.
Steamroller: :) Ink certainly, asphalt cuts me.
Neil Young is awesome. About that school - you wouldn't by any chance, have hobnobbed with the Prince's cousin would you have? *cough*
well old boy, it seems youre finding your way to the artistic spiral down which we all must fall sometime...
The artist, like the idiot or clown, sits on the edge of the world, and a push may send him over it...
personally id rather be an artist, idiot or clown then just another spinning cog in a machine with no direction and true passion and joy, wouldnt you?
cheers...
Is a milkless tea that strong? Really?
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