It's nice and cloudy, a bit chilly inside the ice box. That never changes. But outside is pleasant, and since the shift ends soon. I'll be out. I'm about to get my own place to stay, and I'm a bit thrilled about that. A place where I can stack my books up -- and all the relevant stuff. At the sake of not soundin like a woman, I'll throw in a couple of lamps, put posters and do it up.
When I started working -- which was some good 4 years back, my folks didn't plan for me to live outside home. But circumstances changed, when job shifted to the suburban mess. And even though I've been living in and out of friend's cupboards, this will make things really cool.
The sudden, unexpected sight of what looks like monsoon, in the wretched May just makes everything pretty and decent. Although the humidity rises as well. But what do I care -- ice box will ensure that one of these days I'll die of a pneumonia attack.
I'm at a stage when I'm reconcilliating -- standing at a stage, all alone. And just before the curtain falls, the music softens to die, and I've wrapped the plot -- I shall disappear. I'm looking forward for that.
I've become too common. Too plebeian. Too susceptible to petty emotions. I need my writing back, my music, my films, my dirty fantasy women -- so I can dissolve in a room and sink. I shall then commit a spiritual suicide of self -- to resurrect like a Methodist actor.
So I can no longer be recognised at all. So I can forget you.
I'm quite done, with my headaches, with your headaches and how we all still sit -- and share misery like cigarettes.
I hope one day you'll listen to Desolation Row. See the beauty of a lit Victorian lamp in a dark room -- and everything smoke. Oh bliss. I can't write sense. Which is why yesterday, I bought a pen and paper and I wrote. To know what it's like.
I'm only good when it comes to write meaningless shit like this. I'm done with this murder, I feel like I'm done with this all.
One of these days...and one of these seasons.