Sometimes I wonder from where does this art come to me ; the art of getting myself screwed. E 15 is my emotional closet. This overflowed dustbin looks exactly like my mind. It is sparsely filled.Yet somethings have fallen outside.Though it tries hard to soak in everything , it fails abruptly. Once in a while i clean it out and i think i will keep it clean and clear this time and i fail , every time.
Ah this room is filled not with air but words , which i breath in an breathe out. Which when i look around seem to be randomning across , hitting each other , hurting each other , strong words , weak words , words which come out of this hanging Santa Claus cap and are absorbed by fan regulator , words which move across diagnols of this room , as if this all is programmed. i want to touch them and see what exactly they mean but i cant. My brain is already overflowing.
Sleeping does not help too much. Its an escape but I do not like escapes. I like getting myself screwed. Its not a novel thing for me. I have got myself screwed many a times and now it does not even hurt. I feel something is missing if i have been not being screwed for some time. I do not believe in God. But there is no other explanation. Is there any ? Well that is precisely how God if defined.
Pressures and expectations are surmounting. How to break the jinx? Focus is long gone. What remain are the glorious remains of shining past. Alas ! too bad !
Writing is my thing. Its the best thing i do to myself. But i am feeling helpless. Like my hands are tied . Like i am being forced not to write when i am over-flooded with words. Its painful.
Give me my pen and paper. Turn on the lights. Shut the doors.
Fuck ! Why do i write such short sentences ? What does they signify ? Screw me lord !
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