Some serious amounts of literally coming back to life!

Firstly, some visual work.

Ethics

Forever young

Then, some update.

I went book buying. Bought Secret Island, The Adventure River, The mystery of the burning cottage and Joe's Boys.

The current class 12 batch of St.James', of which I was supposed to be a part, had their farewell, and they didn't allow me to think that I'm not in there batch by insisting I be an essential part of the party. So I went, at 7.30. It was a stag night, at a friend's large and brilliant terrace in Southern Avenue, where a stage was fixed, with sound systems and laser lighting, and an all you can eat buffet and all you can drink, beer-vodka-whiskey bar were set up along with numerous comfortable and pass-out-on-able mattresses and pillows lining the dance-cum-eat-floor. Also present at the party, largely thanks to Raghav, Harsh, Ishaan and I, was an entire 'T' of hash, and some random 200 rupees worth of weed. I had a blast of a night, which started with some beer and vodka shots warm-up as the 'crack team' selected a comfortable mattress and some random 6 or 7 of us set up a comfortable base to roll out a formidable array of joints, supplied throughout the work with beer courtesy loyal juniors. Harsh also happened to have brought his legendary ice-bong, which we used extensively, and by 10.30 everyone, the entire crowd of some 90 people were drunk or stoned and enjoying the DJs loud trance music while the disco lights belted out fluorescent shafts of light amid the smoke filled darkness. Then, our school band, all stoned, gathered together their instruments, got on stage, set it up, and played a medley, non stop, of their favorite songs - Cocaine, Take Me Out, Black Night, Roadhouse Blues, Coming back to life, Baba ORiley and Hey Jude. All of them excelled, though all in some kind of trance, Arjun's guitar stopped everyone dead during coming back to life, Suryanil's synthesizer pulsed through us during Baba O' Riley and Raghav's drums and Protim's base echoed inside our heads throughout. I, as far as I remember, consumed some obscene two digit number of kingfishers and vodka shots, and a random 13 joints, both kinds. My capacity amazed me as I reached home safely at 3.30 and talked for half an hour normally with dad, before plugging into my newly acquired music, courtesy Archie-da, and then listened till 6, then went to school, and then came back home tonight, with 3 random leftover joints being consumed as an afterthought during the course of the day, and am now plugged back into my music.

Thirdly, something I wrote.

“A little faggot with the earring and the makeup,

The little faggot is a millionaire.”

~ Mark Knopfler (Money for nothing)

A lot of people believe I’m reckless. A lot of the things I do are considered, by most, to be irrational, unnecessary and recklessly extravagant. Some respect it, albeit due to various misconceptions, and some cannot stand it, from various misunderstandings. I just wish everyone would open there eyes and join me in this better world, where reason is suffused in every action and thought, and one can exist beyond fetters and unwanted constructs. Mine is a road that leads safely to a good place, carefully avoiding the one that goes down the dark and dangerous alley to the caves of despair and dependence, and maintains its sense of distilled beauty and simplicity throughout like the guiding and directing streetlights.

I think it’s a way of living actually, or maybe a way of thinking. If one learns to see the world in a more soothed light, peacefully and without anger, it becomes much easier to embrace certain practices that carry a bag full of dangers with them, without being burnt by any of that.

I see around me too many people rushing into things, without a thought as to what or why they are doing it. Most of them end up burnt. I’m too young to think about or try to judge what went on inside the minds of the greats like Jimi or Morrison, and hence I have no idea as to whether they were burnt, or just found a different meaning to the road, but I’m sure too many of the deaths from overdose and the cases of young and potentially bright people being found on footpaths or under bars is just a result of getting into something with the wrong mind. I don’t believe physical age has anything to do with it, as much as a proper view of one’s life, though those two are most often entwined.

Someday, maybe, there shall be more people who’d see, and then join me, in peace, and we can explore the mysterious lands inside our heads, created maybe while dreaming as a child or fantasizing as a young man. Maybe I’ll be an old man by then, maybe it’ll never happen, but I shall wait and hope on, for that someday to come.

A dutiful doodle.

Keep yourself alive.

Dying is easy. I’m clever enough to successfully carry out several different and silent methods that take no time to prepare. I was thinking of some kind of a list of things that stopped me from dying. The list was pretty much blank. It’s a barren kind of powerful feeling, not having anything tying you to life.

Maybe I’m just fucked in the head, or maybe it’s just the way I am, but others’ love for me didn’t make the list. Not Mom’s, not Dad’s, not my friends, not Neesha’s, not Tania’s, not Sanjit’s. I could just die when I wanted to. With a lot of pushing, I can be made to believe that I’m special, but that’s artificial. I’m never gonna be Mozart or Picasso or Joyce or Ramanujan. Hell, I’d never even make it a millionth of the way there!

The reassuring fear that’s supposed to kick in, as I’ve heard, when one starts thinking about death too does not come to me. Everything I do, or ever did, seems so colossally pointless and uninteresting that it wouldn’t matter if they stopped. It wouldn’t matter to me at least. People would miss me, mourn me, but that’s childish and again, mostly artificial. Maybe a lot of good I could have done a lot of people would not exist anymore, but I’m actually too selfish to be affected by that. Life is boring, pointless and routine, and I’ve just been trying to fool myself into believing that it isn’t. I won’t anymore.

People have tried to make me see sense about this issue by telling me to look at the lives of the truly wretched people. Never worked. Their lives can be as wretched as they are, that doesn’t make me like mine any more. Truth be told, I’ve no idea why I dislike my life, and its not as much my life as living. So if I was to ask myself what I’d like to change so that I’d like to live, I wouldn’t have the answer.

Fact is, I’m tired of living. It’s been long enough and tiring enough. Someday, soon, I’ll be fed up enough. I’ll be called an escapist, but I’d like to ask, what is it that I did and they’re “brave enough not to” escape? It’s not as simple as Pink Floyd is it? I don’t believe in afterlife or suicide notes. Others’ reactions to my death do not bother me. I once heard a story about a youth called Narcissus who died because he’d only look at his own beauty and love himself, and that’s the closest thing I can sort of call on to show my side of the fence. Maybe life just isn’t what I want it to be, or thought it would be, and I’d rather not continue. Once I die, my body, a nice collection of chemicals, will decay, and I’d have gone permanently from the Earth, and in time, from people’s minds. Things would return to normal. I cannot imagine a better situation, for me. There are a lot of things I’ve kept unsaid, but I’m sure I could do it in bulk, with A4 sized papers folded up in neat white envelopes, addressed in red and gold ink, to be opened when needed.

Koffee with Karan

I've been down with fever for the last few days. That means I'm basically under house-arrest, and I'm not even allowed to visit South City, which is like 1 fucking minute from my house, even when there's been someone waiting there to meet me for 4 hours. Out of sheer boredom, while surfing (I never get that term) the television channels, I came across "Koffee with Karan" (I love that first K) featuring Shabana Azmi and Javed Akhtar. Shabana Azmi and Karan Johar. They should have been married.

Kubla Khan

More random stuff I forgot to post, all done months back.

Runner

Truth or dare?

And then a doodle.

A little bit of rhyming.

Mister Lover

Take your rubber

Off and let me see you cover me with what you got.

When I was a child

I was so wild

That I could never smoke my pot.

What is good in me's

So hard to see

That I cannot show.

But you got to feel

It like you feel

Your lover when he comes to pour.

When I had a gun

I used to run

Around the block until I'd shoot,

And Bobby Brown's gone down

But i'm around

Until I'm found and get the boot

By those whose rounded

Figures are now grounded

And surrounded

By the filth they

Worship just to feel allowed,

But till that day

My swing don't sway,

I'm straight and gay

And happy feeling proud.

Homophobic people sleeping

With each other's

Mothers;

And taboo-haters weeping

When they find their lickers

Going

Through their daughter's knickers;

While Freud is laughing

Rolling on the floor

Until the door's

Not shut no more.