I shouldn't be writing anything at this time to you. But it's ok. I don't have anything to write. Apart from the fact that I might be sending Dear Dr Filth in for a writing competition, under Flash fiction, for this Platform magazine event. If I can brew up something for the rest of the categories, I might as well do that.
I have to also come up with this piece I've been meaning to write on IPL for the old paper, but I need some time for that. Time before the clown starts to jump on my head at night. But I need to get that done soon.
So well I have to cover my very first book launch tomorrow for the rut. It's grumpy ol Sir Vidia I meet. And he's a rotten prick -- who I had an opportunity to meet when I started out. Luckily for me he was pissed at the organisers, and I got my story. Then another when his book, Magic Seeds, was launched, when he declared that he was done with writing and that was his last book.
And that's about all.
So this is something different I'll be up to, after being in for solitary for 2 weeks. Apart from that love's low. Same old jokers, same old beautiful-yet-unattainable dames and that old luck that frowns when you hope.

I'm taking some extra time out of my night to write here. Last night was my off. It was quite uncool. It was also my parents anniversary. Which just went all wrong. But I don't really like to talk about it. I didn't know when to sleep. I was sluggish, I was tired but it all happened. And it happened ok.
Went on bought a Raymond Chandler today and the all favourite The Element of Style. I'm really looking forward to work with Philip Marlowe -- haven't read Chandler for ages. Besides Kake's done me the biggest end-of-April gift -- he's found me some crazy Chinese link that has all the My Name's Earl episodes. And since I've talked about how cool it is -- I won't waste your precious time on it.
The night was a bit bit pissin off to begin with, I came in feeling like Marlon Brando and ended up looking like Steve McQueen. My shift in charge is sweet, she let me be -- besides the whole crew went and got a brick of ice-cream which they've been lickin' up since it started. So I decided to put some in my black coffee to at least feel the rush before the first light of day hits the first step of the office building.
Why am I not leaving this rut? Well let me tell you that apart from working for the last 4 years in the same line -- I don't have options. I haven't advertised my displeasure to the market so there aren't many takers -- and I sort of need this time to be a bit more pissed -- but it's on its way. I'm still quite fresh here -- it's been a few months. So I want to make it last till I suffer a decent enough haemorrhage and then call it quits. By then the time will seem right. I think it's going to happen sooner than you expect it.
Precious' been looking low, yep that's her new name. And it's quite crazy but I seem to be person who feels that I should take up the world's entire role of feeling miserable. So when I see her like this I feel it's just wrong. You see when she's low I just seem to end up looking happier in order to cheer her up. It always goes like this, so the emotions between us oscillates in a matter of minutes.
She has a wonderful smile, I look like an idiot when I try to pull one on. She's the closest I got now here. And I'm not cribbing, but then why would you mind reading a good crib.
She says it's a phase and I shouldn't entertain it much, so I hope she wears it off soon -- cause I like the way it works then.
See that's what the cards read now -- I am meant to sit quiet like Cronus, father of Zeus. I hate to say it but they do make an awful lot of sense lately. And I seem to be making some progress with coming to peace with myself, or well for this moment yes, and so I know you got headaches and so do I.

It's 7 today, and I'm not feeling any better if you ask. But if it weren't for Sir Carlsberg wisdom last evening, I would've been foul the entire night. Really this rut is just brilliant -- it's like a prison. You become institutionalised in days. More people join -- sloppy of course. They got to start from somewhere.
I'm waiting for Marquez to get over now. Really. The book's wonderful but it'll always a map period in my life where I felt like Florentino Ariza. My life almost ran parallel to the plot. It just that Marquez's years took about that long for me in days as I suffered and I fell. And now it's difficult but I think away.
Of course to even feel oppressed was comforting. It's like being swallowed in a roomful of rose petals -- and when you die, you at least mutter to yourself about how it at least smelt nice.
Sometimes you can tell -- sometimes you're not meant to. It's not your role, not your lines -- you're just an actor with someone else's script.
Anyway fuck that.
Watched the match last night: Barca Vs Man U while on the shift. The Red Herring was too rooting for Barca -- and even though the match sort of fell in no one's favour. It was good to jump around and feel like I have some life.
Back's been hurting, the paracetamol worked the mind and everything was wrapped. Now I need to head back for my fractured sleep.

It's 6 in the morning, a completely unnecessary time for any blogger to write. So what am I doing here? Well for me -- it's actually sometime around late evening. I'm back on night shifts, and this time my company has decided to screw me over with two weeks of it. Not cute.
So what has life been? Life's been sleep through day, I brush some 4 times, counting all the times I wake up to have something to eat, and when I find myself back to bed, I lay visuals over my mental tv. Ensuring there are no jump shots, no incoherency, and the eternal wait for conscience to slip under the playground of oblivion. Sometimes I let a nice beer help.
Work's been crazier. It's a complete madhouse, we still lose people everyday. Some give up, some get fired. It's a real war, both sides seem to be losing. And I seem to be sitting right through it.
Shitty if you ask me. And NF still thinks I shouldn't leave this rut. Bah! But why shouldn't I? I get practically mothered here, day in day out. My role is nothing really significant here. I'm not particularly contributing anything editorial here -- I've proven my potential to so many just-left bosses that I'm honestly bored of doing it again. I know that sort of kills the whole opportunity thing and that you work for the larger good, but I guess right now just let it get stuck in your asshole of reasoning. Besides I learn that the only two people who actually fancy me in the rut is a loony woman who talks too much and has an attention problem and the in-house fag who makes them look like fairy's on screen.
Sad.
But I don't know the way out. I can't haggle for a decent post because I can never seem to do that. It's sort of a pride sort of a thing. But tv's like that, they don't really give a fuck about you. You just make friends more easily because you find 3 or 4 common thinking fellows who crib with you on the same lines. Then after a while you're a bit sick of them.
But that's aside the point.
Right now if it weren't for chocolates and black coffee, I'd be spinning and fuming, writing a wicked post that you would choose to ignore. But then when was the sentiment last changed. It's boring ok. Everything. Just look at Friends -- my theory of life just gets affirmed!
I need a way out. An end to misery and all her 7 sisters...

I see blood in your eyes. Love in your washbasin. And hope choked in your chymney mind. The circus is still alive. The jokers are angry. The music just wrong. Wisdom smeared across your dreams. There's chaos and there's a hint of smoke. And there are hopeless and the cripples, your lovers, who were once poets, but now in gutters and drains. Swimming in shit, their minds knocked up with rat poison and nail polish.
There's beauty and there's darkness in eyeliners, but we fall to an empty void in your sock. But there's sweet death in your smile. There's fear in your sleep. You are nothing but an image of a princess that never found a place in the pack of cards. The poor Jack of Hearts is nothing now but a philosopher. He lost his mind the night he slept on your pillow.
They stayed up all night, smoking, drinking, wondering what's it going to be. Till morning came and took them away. The sweet angels of death dancing around the fire -- playing with another century's fashionable Lucifer. The fire burned so well, I slipped and it was over. But there was only mist, but no sign of rain. The animals were howling, the birds broken and sunshine lost in the hallway of your love.
This was it, this could be the only way. For a suicide or a religion a key swallowed in an anguish of hope. Destiny's nothing but a word. A promise that took you to bed with a dragon who lost its breath.
There's romance in roses, and ugliness in clothes. Perfume in murder. You know what I mean, we all felt it that day when the dogs fed on us. We were young once or so we would like you to believe. We write to tell you, but are so afraid to tell you. Oh how can we tell you. To tell you how beautiful you are. That are kisses would be bookmarked in books instead of flowers, if only they changed the law. But so did Shakespeare did dream -- and we still can't find him.
We are strangers killing each other. Feeding on each other to steal some moments to believe. But you look away, is it easier to see a dying man collapse or just a walk across a room of glass orgy.
What slips must be rich. What dips must be mere loss. For nothing really makes sense, nothing really can. I am here and you are there, and we are all together. Just like the song once went. In beauty or in disguise, nothing's true. I'm afraid not ever your tears. You will part and I will crash my knuckles in the sandpit of time looking for skin.
Save us, we are nothing but fools. We just want to believe you. We want this to end. End in bed, with flowers, and a river. River of thoughts, why is it so impossible?

I wish for all of you to stand up and bear that stiff, sudden moment, on the fresh demise of my two day off. The days have gone in waking up late, drinking wine, eating red meat and reading. Besides attempting to catch up with parents and worrying who my shift super will be on Saturday morning (for me it'll be a Monday) -- and the gentleman who makes the roster would consider giving me an off a year or so later. Oh what a rut. I hope you're all here for the condolences.
It's such a pity I have nothing to write here, but the love I have for my work. And what more -- I don't know what would be a way out. Folks are suggesting to apply now and shift to the western continents. But what the rut has managed to do is to bring my self-confidence to an all time low.
My days are pleasantly bleak and I have nothing really to look forward for. Sleep has become my pinnacle of recreational activity -- which too is harbouring on a disorder.
I'm grumpy and incapable of humouring anyone. But if you listen to The Clash's I Fought The Law three times over, like I did, you may be granted relief.

Young that I am perhaps. When I look back at my ol' school life and now. A few years have clearly passed. Considerable time to see me as a different person. Well that's not the point, the point is that an old school girlfriend called last night. Which is fine because I, in my whimsical style, have kept up with mostly all - and even though all of them hated me at that point -- seem to have got used to life and speak quite politely to me.
What robbed my attention perhaps was that she in complete randomness read out a few lines, which seemed nice to me. They were of course love letters that I had once written. But what surprised me was that when she first started I was unfamiliar by the intensity of the writing. I had always thought that I was incapable to write so well at that point. Then perhaps my writing now. My writing now which has been conditioned by time, professionalism, and hardcore subs breathing down my neck, highlighting my mistakes and making a mockery out of honest attempts.
There were too many 'loves' in the written of course. But more than that, some lines were really good. Lines that I would have liked to nick now and scatter them in writing. Perhaps they were written in absolute solitude, to a particular person, and written in a determination that creeped from my frustration and repression.
Those letters mapped an eventful and a heartbreaking time in my life. (And hey who says you don't have real bad days when you're young.)
But those were dark.
It's difficult to get my hands on them as they've become a reading material to my friend who wishes not to part with them. But I would one day like to read them again. The sentences were short, nicely written and extremely poetic.
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It's Eye's birthday, I hope you've wished her. I am at the moment waiting for Russled and Shwats to get done from work -- so we can head to her place to chill -- she's having a party and called some of us over. And having chill for an evening without worryin of a morning I haven't done for a bit. Then go home and sleep in my bed. Not worry about work and anything that remotely relates to the sheer assholeness of it.
I got Eye a Zippo. A slim one. Somehow I had always wanted to pick one up as a gift. It's black -- better than the pansy ones they had in the store. And she seemed quite thrilled -- which sort of felt good.
She's been somehow special to me. One of those people that you feel attached to. The good thing is in this royally effed up rut, is some people like that. In old paper, I had a few which I gathered in a period of 3 and a half years. Red Herring for instance, of course The Queen, Purple Monkey, Office Poet, Sleeping Sunday and a whole lot others. Who were of course a lot elder, but just made my day for being around and also ripping me apart at times.
And here I gathered them more quickly.

Write. Write a song, a poem, a letter, a story, a short story, a long story. And it's difficult to lose your mind now. There's a dodgy person that sits inside your head and talks down to you. You think about it, sometimes argue about it, but most times you're an outsider. You can only witness the rise and fall in history books, wondering what's it going to be then, eh, droogies?
Nothing. Everything is simply, plainly and nicely obscure. It's like being a plumber in a whorehouse. Perhaps it's The Tower.

Wicked. The channel's on Tata today. Got back, spotted a wrong headline, heard Eye's VO, and didn't have the heart to call back office again to correct another miss. Which doesn't go to show how incredible my love for the rut is. But what can I say --for the time being, I really don't see a change.
So 5.30 in the morning it is before I get a 2 day off, for being patient and not seeing home for a good month. Nothing is really right, nothing wants to be so. I miss basic life, basic time to meet some devotchkas, slurp fancy cocktails with em and the forever lookout.
But then that's that. Thinkin of makin some switches -- open some stitches. I don't think I'll be ever to tell. Maybe the truth's slipped. And if that's so, then it shows how pathetic it really is. Which says it isn't what the dream really said. And then like all smiles, and all smokes, the morning distress clears meaning for another labyrinth.


(if you're seeing some basic typos here, please message 8888 and you'll recieve something or the other to waste your time)

(no i'm really sorry, not been minding that, hope you get the point)

Morning. Morning Earthlings, do you have to start life so effing early? Coffee, smokes, headspins and the grand old question: the meaning to life? It's a bit strange. I seem to have been pushed further into a corner. There's a chaos and riot, a dragon and a sparrow -- and I'm in this mess.
What's it going to be then, eh, dear droogies?
And what could have been better is spoiled by deception. Sweet cold deception. Which is still fine. Just leaves me wondering, what then. Haven't written, last read something was last Saturday.
And if I'm rolling out of this rut. Then what next?
The very law of probablity.

I feel much better now with only disgust over my ridiculous emotions.
So the Surd Man has decided to gift me his Mythic Tarot -- he said he wasn't reading it. And since Ma, has been reading the same one's for a while -- she's really good --I can interpret them fairly. Although I need to get my hands on the Mythical Tarot book -- which sort of makes things clear with the perfect Greek annotations to it.
I'm just extremely tired. From the afternoon shift which was 1 pm to 12 am, I'm on the 5.30 am to 4.30 pm one. Which is cool because I get a fair portion of the evening that I had been craving for, but find me exhausted.
Me and Kake, whenever we can, play 100 points. Which sort of keeps our heads levelled. But besides that me and Big Surd took one night talking of writing a tv sitcom script that formulates on 5 friends that return to India after studying together. Circumstances get them all together.
The trick is that they aren't the average American sorts with fucked up accents like Apu in Simpsons. And the other thing, the mentality is sort of fresh. So it's alienates from the saas-bahu and their children sort of thinking.
It's comic, supposed to have good lines, and doesn't in any which way exhibit orthodox views. Now we just have to put it all together.
The trouble is that Big Surd's got the same job in another channel, and to find time in our effing miserable lives to figure that we're actually doing shit stuff is depressingly pissing off.
Which reminds that I watched Natural Born Killers last evening, and it pickled my brains. Stone, sort of kills it with the visual imagery of America that loves and loathes the art of violence and blood.
I don't know what pissed Tarantino off it -- but I thought it was effing cool.

Something's wrong, frightfully. I'm pretty upset about it. I've been thinking about it. Which is why I couldn't sleep about it, and even when I managed some -- I still couldn't hide. And I've never been like this.
The trouble is it makes me look silly. For this once she makes my words are foolish. And even though I know there's isn't just one starfish in the sea
I can't really tell you. Maybe it's Marquez's Love in the Time of Choelra. I'm trapped in a Marquez land, in love with every things he paints. The sheer imagery and the dreamy wisdom -- this is the way I would assume God would talk after death (in a Morgan Freeman sort of voice). His words of ink are arsenic to me. Sometimes Dylan's my relief -- sometimes broken tears. Leonard Cohen's there but coughing on herbal cigarettes.
And I really can't tell you. Which is why you would want to know more. My perfect Sunday lost in a cloud of gloom, choking on a puke of thoughts, rum, and some words -- seemingly possible lies, or lies of thoughts.
I'm chasing a mist to make a curtain for a palace that sits on tufts of vanilla ice-cream.

"I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me." Norwegian Woods.

I don't believe any of it. I really don't want to. I mean is there something to make out of it. Believe in cards, witches or goblins. And what is that apologetic explanation of that four letter word (not fuck) love.
Is there anything to it? Anything, or everything. Does it mean I go get laid, or does it mean, a drink in the old club speaking like "hey, you know what". Feeling better, sucking a cherry -- spitting the seed.
Chaos. Dragon flies, and an old friend who talks to much. Why should I write sense to you, when you don't to me. Is it plain, simple and nicely obscure. Or are we children now with a garden of garbage with an overeaten serpent.
Help! The ship sinks tonight. There's no conformity, not even in dreams. Mystery, Style...spoken words. The truck runs over orphans on midnight.
Blissfully beatnik. Rubbish. Dr Filth is sleeping. I'm in the madhouse, next to the whorehouse, at least they get to sleep.
Remorse and roses, kisses and wishes.

You know the few things that should perhaps never happen to someone when they walk into office is? No. Well, it's April Fool's Day -- and here's how it got better out of me. The trouble is that unlike all 'big deals' that are meant to hit me, here I was on the verge of writing the sorriest story you never wanted to hear, but got to hear anyway.
So I walk into office, and the first person I meet is NF. Now on very ordinary days, just this bit, would make my day. Seriously . But this besides the point, and I besides have to sound quite upset with her.
Now she says that Eye is extremely pissed off with me. (Which is crazy!) She's pissed off with me because someone said something to her regarding me. (Which is crazy! There are always people in office who believe they actually believe they would be better off in a marriage bureau!) She's pissed off with me because I had said something about Eye that she got to hear and she's pissed off! (Which is crazy and ridiculous!) So I'm looking for Russled because only he can talk shit -- and he's good at it -- and he has said something that really wasn't meant to be said.
But the guy seems to be preoccupied with work, for a change, and I feel like strangling him for this.
Meanwhile, I'm shooting off messages, and Eye seems to be quite dismissive about the whole thing. While I'm chnating in my mind - I've lost a friend.
I miss lunch, smoke a couple of smokes. Wondering what's it going to be then, eh?
When I get a message by Eye who says 'come out'. While I'm trying to hurry it up, thinking of all the ways I can possibly apologise, and beg for forgiveness and approval -- I am told that I was suckered in -- and it's the historic Fool Day.
Russled had been pulled on a similar one -- and he's standing there looking as sheepish and stupid as I am. We have a couple of smoke -- have lunch -- and here I decide to tell you this.