Sort of story..

It was one of those nights, all over again. For him, it was one of those nights. He believed that there are two types of nights a person can have, one is the everyday monotony, the usual ones with the same repetitious progression where he'd be a normal person and trudge through the movement of time either reading something or glare back at the phone screen, aimlessly scrolling up and down, absently clicking on something not even noticing what is on the screen until sleep is considerate enough to arrive. The second one is one of those nights - the vague one.

Kolkata gets really quiet, really fast. It's 11.30 at night and already the locality around his PG has fallen silent, or almost silent, excluding the incessant chirping of the crickets.. 'stridulating', it is called, he had read it somewhere once. A pack of dogs bark somewhere, letting the others know of their turf and their dominance, somewhere someone unfortunate enough was making his way home at this late and ungodly hour, ringing the bell on his bicycle in sheer frustration. For the unaccustomed, days and nights of the city of joy are bipolar.

This would be his 10th or 11th cigarette now, he had lost count, and as a matter of fact he had lost the sense of time too. The orange street light unsuccessfullyy tries to illuminate his room, obstructed by a flailing cheap curtain, creating a strange shadowy, noir like essence. One can actually hope for a sharp scream from the corner of the damp alley and a whole hard-boiled sequence of a cheap detective novel. He fiddles a burning cigarette in one hand and his pen in the other one, which has led to small inked poke marks on his palm. A single A4 paper lays in front of him, tired and waiting, either to be torn apart or be scarred with whatever his patron feels like. Already a number of his own had been crumpled and thrown, some in the waste bin, most on the floor. They both exhale an exhausted breath, one with smoke, other with the weight of being a blank surface.

Stubbing out the cigarette, he makes up his mind. How difficult can it be?

Leaning dangerously over the paper as if trying to drown himself in the ink, he writes -

"Dear Mahamaya,
It is one of those nights...".

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So I wrote this.. if anyone reads this, I would like to have an honest opinion..

Regards.

Surrender

Loud and loud, the music is now noise,
I taste bitter, 5 pegs down and on my 9th cigarette, I cannot tell you the difference.
I cannot tell you what song is playing, it's shit, it can be a good song either,
I just need the noise.

Time is nothing but a roundabout moment,
I am stuck on the junction between
going haywire and lie completely still, like a painting. I am confused, disprized towards
the gold.

All this, and for what? A pathetic adoration?
Admiration? Love?

Done with my ungodly devotion to self-destruction, I call it a night, promising,
not tomorrow, not again.

I surrender, under the pretence of change.
I surrender to lying.

Fluidity

24th May, 2018.

I thought that installing the blogger application on my phone would make things easier, writing would come back. Though indeed I am writing these days, prolifically, blogging seems to have taken a back seat for the time being.

Anyways, that's not the issue here I intend to blab about, there things which are far more important and crucial, that takes the precedence here.

Now I have always believed myself to be some sort of an "out of context" person, ergo, I had this delusion that I simply do not belong to the present, I still lack the directions as to my whereabouts and my destination but there was a time not long ago when everything for me was nothing more than a bauble of no value. I can blame it to everything but that would be tad bit insulting to myself and it will disprove everything else that I found in the process of arriving to the present state.

In a very recent developments of things, I now find myself involving into matters that shouldn't be my bother. If anyone is privy to my being, they will know that I was detached from the very idea of getting personal with anything, one of major reasons as to why I have a dearth of 'friends'. I was distant and to be frank, absurdly disgusted by the idea of accountability that comes with any relationship. Matter of fact, I still do that, from time to time, I care less about a lot of people who were supposed to be here but aren't and who are here but don't matter.

Yet, I see that I have entangled myself into a  fine quagmire of relentless care and sentiments. The very thing that once had filled me with dread and nausea has now become my helm, robbed me of my self-imposed definition as a person.

But what I have learned from this, all of this, is that as an individual, our definition for ourselves hold no water after a certain point, they are bound to get changed. We might give ourselves a predefined idea as to what we are, in my case as I always claim to be a loner, these ideas, at best, are nothing but ostentation, a baroque title of some faux somberness. I speak for myself here but the point is we are not what we say we are, not always.

So, am I still a loner? Do I prefer to be a lonesome soul trudging about? I would say yes, although I might not like it. I care a lot these days, I cannot pretend to say otherwise. The only catch here is the fact that at the same time my claims are both true and false; I care and I don't. I stand alone and I don't, it depends where I am.

As for the present state, I am reconnecting myself. But I know there will be a time when I will break everything down and leave. But there's time for that. I hope there is a long time for that.

Regards.