Belonging

Some words set in motion a mood for bed. I catch myself in a half alive silence- just the noise of the fan running devotedly, cutting the hum of the air conditioner. It’s a constant reminder of how blessed we are to sleep comfortably every night.

I close my eyes, slip quiet hands under my soft, old t-shirt and draw faint circles on my stomach. I like my stomach. This void makes me feel whole.

I sleep next to Maa these days since Papa isn’t in town. I think my mother is her most beautiful a few minutes before she falls asleep. She lies down after a hard day, puts one leg over the other, her arm over her eyes and breathes deeply. I hold her Bandaid-ed thumb and wish it gets healed soon. I wish I could just press it and give her my good health. But she has pressed my hand first and given me some of her sleep so my worry deserts me for the night. 

“I suppose Virtual Reality will further expose the conceit the ‘reality’ is a fact. It will provide another reminder of the seamless continuity between the world outside and the world within, delivering another major hit to the old fraud of objectivity. ‘Real’ as Kevin Kelly put it, ‘is going to be one of the most relative words we’ll have."

-John Perry Barlow

Working in a Startup

On Off On Off Click Double click Tsk tsk Click click click click clickkkkkk clickkkk MOTHERFUCKER Bang mouse on the table Slam desk Heavy breathing Sigh Try again.

Most sighs come from workplaces I suppose. And bedrooms (?)

The promise of free internet browsing has possibly tricked a big chunk of our generation into desk jobs.

I'm not complaining though. I like my job.

"The best of life is built on what we say when we’re in love. Believe me, you’ll remember all 

the silly things you’ve said; and you’ll find that your life has been built on them. It isn’t 

nonsense, it’s the truth, it’s the only truth." 

-Virginia Woolf

A seemingly inconsequential thought slips and falls on the off-white sheet.

Breaks his nose, cries in defeat.

A hand extends to mend it.

Strokes the head a bit.

Everything finds value on my paper.

Self-Pity

I’m fantasizing about my future as a failed writer.

There’s some poetry in that life, there is.

In tall cigarettes becoming slowly stunted, like my hope.

In a quivering, wasted hand that couldn’t lift the pen in time; now clutching a heavy glass with cheap whiskey.

A failed marriage. A cheating husband.

And the absence of a child, who could’ve been my last chance at happiness.

There’s some poetry in that life, there is.

Perhaps then I’d hit it. Nurse all my grief like a newborn and then suddenly smash its skull on paper and create something heartbreakingly phenomenal.

By destroying myself.

Writing comes from suffering after all. Doesn’t it?

DOESN’T IT???

No. It doesn’t.