Dear readers, I've fallen terribly ill. My each thought is turning into heavy gray stones that are sinking deep beneath the waters of my consciousness. And as I write this, I feel terribly faint. I don't particularly intend to solicit any sympathy. I'm being nursed with water, Sir Ludwig Van Beethoven and Nietzsche. My fascination for the futility is quite successful, yes you are right, I'm quite aware it completely quite futile. My stomach aches, my head's splattered on the red walls of reason and my misery painted in Van Gogh.
What misery.
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I'm only a poet.
I see but only misery,
In your truth and your beautiful eyes.
I live for your honest lies.
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I've been quite out of love. To that very point that the four-lettered word means nothing to me but a distant cousin of foolishness sold in Archie cards. I've nearly forgotten how it really felt, and what it used to do. So distant has it travelled from me that my remembrance has turned it into a dove of ugliness, a symbol of wretched belief. A terrible fever, a morbid sensation and a feeling to be in a room of a whorehouse that treats only cowardice. Yet I yearn for it, as my nerves crave for normalcy after being intended to be distraught.
And so look at the way I've just written this, this what I've written, almost worth publishing in an outdated and unfashionable to that very point of never-selling never-sold sex manual. It means nothing, and just like so many other things, it never will.
I am no asexual, not even terrible looking, and yes I've figured -- as it doesn't take much to figure -- that there are women who are in love me. But I seem to turn my back on them. I don't know but I'm looking for someone, someone that even at this bitter moment refuses to give or grant me few words to identify her.
I never had her to lose her, and now that she isn't here, I see her but I don't exactly see her. I don't seek an affair nor am I looking for a mate to marry. Conventions stifle me. Friends I have too many, there words are beautiful, there arms are scarred and there's an unknown wisdom in their embrace but I look for someone else. It's terribly strange. And as everything searches the reason to be with people, to find that woman who has these eyes, only disappointment courts. I know not how they look, but they sure look so swell.
I don't know the intention to have written this, like a very good journalist, I know that I lack the basic structure to have this story sold. But since this blog doesn't belongs to no capitalist, nor am I a communist to begin flouting, these words get printed here for free.
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Last night I felt death. It was beautiful, and just a flash it was like. As soon as I died, I woke up. I think the moment I die now again, I'll wake up. I think this is the way it basically goes.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it
By a terrible stroke of luck and misfortune I got a burn scar. So while I was pulling a suitcase from a cuboard my left arm brushed against a naked bulb. I know it sounds terrible, it looked terrible as well. I saw my skin burning and I felt no pain, it was strangely itchy. I don't know why I'm telling you this, guess rules are rules here.

2. What is on the walls in your room?
Several things. A poster of Cobain smashed on a drum set. A 5 foot poster of Ian Anderson playing the flute that my younger brother tore from the concert in Bombay, which is a very cool thing. A painting by Constable. A charcoal sketch done by my mother.

3. What does your phone look like.
I'm not a pansy so I really don't care. My phone's an ordinary Nokia 6681, people do confuse it with the N-Series but I really couldn't care. I don't change them every 4 months, I don't discuss the new models.

4. What music do you listen to?
Very largely and very basically I listen to Bob Dylan, L Cohen, Stones, Muddy Water, Buddy Guy, Pistols, Nirvana, Doors, Neil Young, Ramones, Pearl Jam, Sir Ludwig Van, Beatles, Velvet Underground -- there does that make me sound very cool? But lately been listening to what White Light's been passing on. The fellow's a genius on music.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
A painting of Keef (Keith Richards).

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
Go drink lots of beers, have a couple of smokes, take a pee, watch a cool movie, have my exams over in a flash, work sorted out and the answer to life, the universe and everything. Lame? Damn, I was talking about the question.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Don't ask me. Ask that guy sitting there.

8. What time were you born?
I've forgotten and I'm not really going to call my folks at this moment to answer ye. Nor is it that you really care, or do you for all that David Copperfield bullshit?

9. Are your parents still together?
Very much.

10. What are you listening to?
A thousand chattering hacks, a thousand keys being hit, monotony and nothing else really.

11. Do you get scared of the dark?
It depends where the darkness leads. Too mysterious? I mean I wouldn't want to be shut in a box and thrown down a pit just for darkness kicks. You don't mean that do you?

12. The last person to make you cry?
Assholes. Naa, I didn't cry.

13. What is your favourite perfume/cologne?
Not a pansy not even a metro, really it depends.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?
Terrible questions. I love great eyes.

15. Do you like pain killers?
Who writes these questions? You like pain? Ok, I'm kidding, sure I do but when I need them.

16. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Depends, really it depends.

17. Fave pizza topping?
Oh man! Cheese and pepperoni.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Pizza, I was thinking of it. I wonder why?

19. Who was the last person you made mad?
Fuck I feel 14 writing this, eh eh eh. Well I got mad today. Effing bloody corrupt ministers. You call this a democracy? Lousy assholes can't spare 2 minutes.

20. Is anyone in love with you?
I guess so.

(I tag you guys)

You know in every one's life there comes a point when they are asked questions. Now I don't mean embarrassing questions, I mean basic random questions. Sometimes they come for well meaning people and sometimes they come from a very troubled but impressionable place called mind. Why am I a misanthrope for instance? Or why am I so cynical? Why am I not writing here so regularly, the way I used to. Why have I put a picture of a protagonist of a fascinatingly evil character of one of the most brilliant films ever produced? Why do I feel like telling listening to Sympathy for the Devil? Why am I writing all this?
And the real irony is that sometimes I have very good answers. I don't tell them. It's a matter of little intrigue. I suppose life steps you down a little sometimes. There are beautiful losers everywhere, and there are some real ugly one's I'll never mention.
I've been reading Breakfast of Champions, you can call it Goodbye Blue Monday if you like. The book's a real work of art, I mean sometimes God should keep genius's around for a little longer. This place gets depressing otherwise with all those fat, lousy, single-minded, jackasses that take one stupid but very fine pointed point and start drilling a very fine hole in your mind. Oh I love it, I really do.
I just have to leave this planet in sometime, but with a towel of course. You know something reminded of a very brilliant bit that I read from Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, humans have a very particular habit of asking really stupid but very obvious questions. It made more sense, a little while before I found this MAD Books on Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions.
So well I know I'm not saying anything much. I'm sort of rambling. Those of you who are exceptionally kind and regulars readers may realise that apart from a few occasions, I really just go on writing what I really feel without much coherence of reason. What worries me is that some morons may want to believe on some very tangential lines that I have to do something with Virgiania Woolf. I don't really like Woolf much. Nothing particular, but just like I don't like mad dames. I mean I love the way she killed herself, that's extremely fascinating. What depresses me about her is the way she goes all that crazy in an early Victorian setting, and then she has to tell it in this intelligent but sorry way.
Just like that not many students love ole' Chaucer -- regardless of how much they love the prude for writing all that, like all that -- but to study all that length.
Right now I plan to kill effing Wordsworth.
Well that all is over, I only have exams now left. After that I'll chuck the crap away, or find out how I can sort my life out a little bit. I know I sound very common, and that's terrible, but I sort of hate these things, exams as they say. I'd rather watch porn and enjoy myself then do those things than be tested by a couple of morons.
If you're actually feeling like blaming me for all this that you've just read, I'll just say I had a headache, I'm no effing Opium taking poet giving you an elaborate imagery of a Romantic super star poet that somewhat looks crazy and make your children's children read all that crap in a bloody school-book some centuries later. Some people really have fascinating lives you know, everyone has, one just has to think of one's life as a movie. No I'm not quoting Mr Morrison. I mean it. One just needs good projection, that's all. Now look at all this Bachchan effing wedding Rai, who gives a fuck. If you're really lousy to say yes you're just spending a real life of sham. Just a little worse than everyone. I'm getting out of here, metaphorically I meant.

Some school friend: Hey Jerry, how've you been man? Hope all's well?

Me: All's good. How've you been?

Some school friend: Nothing all's cool. Preparing for my Cat exams for the second time.Got 93 last year. No Calls. Trying harder again. Wat 'bout you?

Me: (thinking) Gulp!

So it goes

Kurt Vonnegut's gone.

It's the heat. I'm being consumed. The city's burning, it'll get worse.

It's strange. To make this riddle worse, it never made any sense to me. After endless seeming nights of silence, in the hills, where my phone lost its network dissuading me to keep any contact with the terrible popular truth, I allowed darkness take my mind. I saw the fire burning, and then the coldness of the ash, while I listened to a nightingale. I saw bliss in the flower, bird of paradise, the blossoming of peach trees, and felt the trial of moral and immoral ending.
My head smashed with sinus and rum and wine sometimes, but found meaning in love to Sir Ludwig van Beethoven's Symphony 9. The fourth movement. Dissolving every careless thought into a machine and producing the stillness of every romance. What is it that's driven every soul to a point, to that very existential dichotomy and then left them to stray. The meaning, the loss of words, and then the death of reason. I know not know.
But I sit here with a room full of abundant arguments pulling every tangled point of view to straighten the very basic, wondering what the hell it all means. Ah dear readers, I know, how I really don't know.
Literature. African writing, the Romantics, Modern European Drama, Neoclassicists, 20th century thinkers, yes I've been studying as well. Travelling back and forth in time to think and criticise, sometimes unworthily. I sit to prepare for my third last year of English Honours programme, and that's greatly been busying my time.
I don't understand, I know as foolish as it sounds, that I'm a bit worried about me course. Yes I know it's English, English literature to be precise. Shameful that I make it sound as though its a paper of Accounts. But the same lines of nervousness now reiterates as it did once in school.
I fancied once that English Lit would be tested on decent merit in universities at least, and not on mugged up ideas. Last year, 12 people were caught in my class of 20 copying answers from a guide. It was shameful as well as intolerable to have this happening while I wrote my paper. But imagine my curiosity, what answers had they found.
So many things have happened in this recent past, I seem to have been in the middle of a crossfire of chaos. Madness swelling. Some of the best people have left.
And time? I'm around.