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The forward button

What's the use of feeling enraged?
Your blood grasping hot iron
fumes thrust through igniting the char
it twists and turns
and knots a million cinders
burning its way through your heart
and puckering through your brains
gnawing a deep hole
that lets you estranged.

As you scrabble through 
cursing wildly under your breath
sweating your way into dark, uncharted poles
Flick your eyeballs,
as you cast them on to every syllable
that has ever been inked, dissolved in the contagion 
or even to be uttered
scattered intrigue, a few coins up their sleeves,
a back sword, a bludgeon, a pistol
appears from the magician's hat
there lay a crimsoned stiff or more, 
rather many wailing upon their loss
be it their petite stock of the green 
or their soul bread that 
wouldn't lead to another suicide,
or the penny that fell off their spilling pockets.

As the bulging belt
spits out another button,
he frolics with a glass of liquor
and spews around orders to obey
and plots more devilry under dim light,
you snoop around
scribbling meticulously into your notepad
every word or rather noise
that he drawls into the mic to the cheering crowd
or whispers into the ears of the untold
and as the dawn trickles in
your words, or rather his, 
trickle into the minds of your readers. 
They go berserk, a million others like you
they enunciate, punctuate, debate
over the affair for a few minutes
and then, as they press the 'plus' button
the a capella swings in
their frowns blur
they tap their fingers noiselessly
on their coffee tables
and they rush for a swig of beer
forget every hue and cry
and party like the end of the world.

You furrow,
insist, assume,
apparently endeavor
break knuckles
errand and elicit truth
your 'new's thinned by a thousand drawls
as they just hit the forward button.



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FOUND

                                                                    Image: Internet
If you had missed the previous chapters of the story: Click here Chapter 1Chapter 2

CHAPTER 3


It was the fall again, they had gone for a stroll outside the university campus into the beautiful park where snowy trees surrounded the white spread and there were very few passers-by due to the freezing chill.
The two of them hovered around enjoying the beauty carpeted around them. Maureen had already gone down, working her gloved hands into the snowy layers. She started rolling a huge ice ball with a grin on her pink face. Steve looked at her dazed by the tinkle of her eyes and the jingle that her laughter spread in his heart.  The moist wind ruffled her blond hair, some of which fell onto her face like a wave onto the shores.
Steve just stood there with his hands folded, his lips curved into a mesmerizing smile and his eyebrows were arched in sheer amazement of what was happening to him that moment.   He felt…

Being humane

Every dawn dooms with wail


I never opine but in my daze,

For I am human, humane.

Image courtesy: Internet

To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…