Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Summer Afternoon

The afternoon slinks by silently past my window. Throwing in long shadows from past the box grill. I sit at the keyboard tapping in one key at a time. Each letter more tired than the next. Something in it all tells me I hate doing this. But there is nothing else to do. I can’t just sit quiet. Well, I could. What I meant was that I can’t vegetate in a single place. As a human, I am forbidden to ennui. And yet I have a uniquely hidden talent to find boredom in everything I do. It is not very hard. It usually takes less than 5 minutes for me to get bored of something. Life is so exciting, I could die without it.


I look back up at the nonsense I have just written and think why I wrote it. I have no idea. I am usually this confused and lost. It’s like I am on a permanent supply of dope. LSD running through my veins, coursing its way to my brain, exploding in a psychedelic mix of technicoloured madness. And I haven’t lit my first cigarette yet. Well, I think I might quit. After all, why do you need to waste money on smoke when you are smoked already?


The dust flies up in scattered difference when I type on the keyboard. I always promise that I’ll get around to cleaning it but never do. It now looks like the uncovered remnant of an ancient civilization. Soon it will be. With me. I wonder how it will feel to be old. I don’t worry about age a lot. It doesn’t seem to affect me. All around me, people keep growing up and changing. Kids I saw crying over lost cricket balls now have children of their own to feed. I am a creature in the zoo. The last one of its kind. The last Peter Pan. Somehow, the name has been corrupted in today’s world. It becomes more telling of a paedophile to be called that. Tragedy.


Time has a weird way of troubling you. It has this madness of stopping in its tracks just when you are egging it on to move faster. It is never the minute hand that stops. Actually, to think of it; you never see the hour hand move, do you? The thing that really pulls my whiskers is the second hand. The irritating fast moving second…when it pauses just when you think it’ll move. Maybe I am hallucinating, maybe I am not. If you believe in god, I am sure you’ll believe in all these weird phenomenon. I don’t. Not so much, so I think I am hallucinating. I can only write when I am. So there, I prove myself.


I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the

beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.


I talk of the middle. The long languorous, never ending middle. The middle we are forever stuck in. One which drags and trails our bodies, caging our lives within through this dusty world. At each ste we tug harder at the noose aound our necks and are dragged an inch further. Till there comes a time when we give up and accept the exciting boredom of being dragged wherever we are dragged to. That’s all the nonsense there is for today.


I think it was Twain who said no one writes nonsense better than him. Its time to question that. Another insane madman has arrived.

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