Attention Please....

Do you think you navigate your own life in whichever direction you want?
That you are the sole controller of your own life?
As obvious as it may seem, it’s not true. Let me prove it to you. Now, you are reading this thing so surely you are alive and being live means that your life is temporary, prone to end someday. And that implies that you have fixed time in your hands, fixed number of breaths that you take. And you see, right now, right here I am eating away your time; those breaths that you are using from the limited collection that you have, have my name on it. And sadly, you will never have them back. Had I not thought of writing this, you would have some extra time in your life. So, I am one reason that’s independent of you and yet I am changing your life, even in a minute way.
But that’s not where my story ends. This is the most basic: me eating up your time (in a good or bad way). But suppose I post a link here that interests you and you click on it that directs you somewhere and so on, or maybe I use a wor
d that appeals to you such that you search it or, I write something that turns you on, or maybe kills your mood. In any case, I will be responsible for the thing that ensues although you won’t notice it. One thing leads to another and the process goes on. Tell me that it’s impossible to happen? Is it?
So the bottom-line is that I am a part of your life, although the tiniest part, and if I can have such influence think about what other bigger causes can do to you or in other words, take your breath away :)

I write

I write to live deliberately, to syringe the fluid of feelings into the empty holes of my heart. Not emotions; emotions are evil, but feelings. Feelings help me to remember that I am still alive, still a focus of unbound energy, still capable of running a futile run.
I write to be stronger; to let flow my body and mind through a chimney and come out clean and light, able to be blown away. Yes, I want to be blown away; too tired now for a wild goose chase. Blown away higher and higher till height becomes a cliché and where only roses shine and suns bloom. I write to feel that moment, not momentarily but like moments attached to the tips of infinite pins ingrained into my body.
I write to give a name to the past, to tell her that you are not forgotten sweetheart; you can never be because you are present in the spaces of my body where there are no spaces. You are in the blood flowing through my veins and in the air that I breathe. Writing makes my past, thorns of mistakes and my future, petals of blessed opportunities.
Yes, I write to make myself feel better, to satiate my obsession of seeing myself in good light. I help my brother and obey my parents because I am selfish, that way I score points with God, by doing good deeds. I don’t want to be the last one in line to heaven. And for that I have to be the nastiest self-centered brat you can ever find and precisely for that, I write.
 

I feel

I feel.
That’s all I do, ever.
I feel the million atoms of air that flow in and out of my body; I see them like dust, like an army of zealous children vying to come first in the race.
I feel calm. Silence; with an omnipotent engine running in the background somewhere, emanating energy continuously, creating life-sustaining motion in the air.
I am not pure.
I have had my share of sins. But right now, in this moment which is losing me every fleeting second, I feel the power to be pure, to be without disagreements with myself.
I have some unanswered questions, few broken relationships, some lost battles. But today, I have desires to be better, climb higher, fight harder. I am a human being after all.
But my mind says to me that it doesn’t understand the point of it all. Like a little kid watching the magic show for the first time, it is confused. It takes the extremes to convince me; he says there were people like Einstein and Hitler who did herculean tasks; made the world resonate with them and then there are people like me who breathe, exist for a while and then vanish into the unknown. Still the earth’s cycle goes on uninterrupted, people still take birth and die, and they still embrace happiness and fight gloom. It asks me: What’s the point of it all? What’s the point of growing and dying? What is there to live for when nothing’s eternal? Where’s the everlasting self?
I am speechless and clueless. I feel weak and want to cry, to surrender to the almighty, if He’s there. My heart is heavy with emotions, with love and dejection. But there’s a quiet corner somewhere in my heart that refuses to quit; it disagrees with me, it makes me feel that ‘God’ doesn’t want to see me surrender; he wants to see me burn in the flaring fires of hard work, to break all odds, to crush every tornado in the arduous path to find my answers. I close my eyes and see an unbounded and melting form of human in my imagination, challenging me to come to Him.
I want to laugh at myself, at the virtual world I live in; creating God of human form and believing in it, with utmost faith. But then a disturbing thought makes me stop: Isn’t that what the whole world preaches?
God ought to be more than that; my little corner of heart tells me that. Laughter breaks the spell though. And I can again feel my body, my fingers, face. I am again a part of the cycle. That means I can listen to music or play or do what I do best: I feel.

I am Good

Dilemma is the prime deterrent in the way of accomplishments. And I am its latest prey. But it does not understand that if I wait any longer, I will have another victim’s blood on my hands. It does not care about it coz its deep roots emanate from thousand years old principles and dogmas of society. And I have had to face the consequences of letting the false truths preached by society to prevail over my beliefs which are purely rational.
The thing is; twice I had to drop my plans in the middle and flee due to the sudden springing of this fucked-up ethical notion. One more goof up and I would be sitting in a special chair, letting the roasting electric current pass through my body. Can’t let that happen. So, first things first. Before I go on doing what I love to, I have got to sort myself out. But it’s difficult coz the voices enchanting these falsities have been there around me since birth, so much that it’s hard to know what’s genuine and what’s not. Like everyone else, this virus has been planted in me too, taking my decisions before I can use my brain. Like ‘don’t speak what you feel inside’, ‘take revenge on people who hurt you’, ‘better waste time delaying justice rather than kill them’, ‘Gods can kill; you can’t’. I have become a second-hander, a parasite feeding on the principles injected in me. It told me what truth is and what’s not, before I knew the meaning of truth. All my fucking life…
I always rejoiced killing prostitutes or hustlers but lately this notion, that killing is sinful, has penetrated my mind and has made me back-off twice at the last moment. For the record, I kill a certain species of hustlers, and my research is pretty impeccable. Nina is one of them. She is a renowned prostitute in the GB road, and she has got AIDS. No problems until she decided to misuse the enormous power she withheld. And this is where I come in, to paint her goddamn story in red. She is a sadomasochist just like many more prowling the road. She had a remorseful childhood, selling her body all the life to feed it. Sad and broken. But power changes people. And she is no exception; rather hungry to avenge the wrong done to her by the society. She is unleashing the virus and loving it. Funny, we both are victims of society, but different ways to deal with it.
8.11 pm. Sunday.
I am in the mall where Nina comes every night and picks her man. Or her prey. Tonight is the day for another hunt, although the prey will be different, and the predator too. The place is crowded. Good; less chances of getting recognized or remembered. She is roaming around the men near the ticket counter; ready to hook up, conspicuous in her pink top and blue short skirt; seems like it’s her birthday everyday. Needless to describe her face, she has make-up like a slut. I can’t approach her directly, she is not a lesbian (my research is immaculate). But one thing she won’t ignore is a fresh beautiful girl (a bit) ready for ‘recruitment’ and a handsome pay by her pimp. I am all dressed for the big kill, in my cheap salwar suit (almost ragged) and messy hair. Tonight’s the night for some acting. Time to go now.
I collide with her from back.
“Oye, can’t you watch yourself?” she says after a good stare. Decent reply from her, perhaps she believes what she sees.
“Extremely sorry didi, uh-I could not see you” I try to stammer.
“It’s ok. You are not hurt, are you?” She is polite.
“No, I am fine. Actually I should get out of here; I know nothing about this mall, first time for me here.”
“Oh! Do you live around here?” getting interested, good. I think she is on her path to hell.
I make a few guilty faces before replying, “Actually my father passed away few days back, I have got no place to live now.”
“Ok. That’s sad. What about your home?”
Show time for some fake tears (I am using a cheap balm). “They seized it. I don’t know what I will do now”
“Where are you staying nowadays?”
“At my uncle’s. But they are very bad. Always hitting and making me do work.”
“Oh poor girl, look you really seem to be nice, that’s why I can help you. I can see if I can get you some house. But you will have to wait. Can you hang around here for about an hour?”
She’s going for the dual pack; get a fuck-buddy and a fresh girl too. But that would mean one more blood on my hands. Can’t let that happen.
“No, I can’t. My uncle is very strict. If I’m late, I will get badly beaten.” Emotions, right?
She is in trouble. Please don’t leave me.
“Ok. Let’s go.”
Fucking awesome.
I get out with her in a cab. I am sure where she’s taking me. But I won’t let that happen. I offer her some of my special candies and she is out in a minute. The next part is bookwork, I tell the driver that she has fainted and has to be taken to some resting place. I take her to my rented room with his help and bid him adieu.
The rest, as they say, is history. I can’t tell how I murdered her; it’s my exclusive recipe, can’t share but I can share something else; that I felt on cloud nine when I put an end to her and her insane virus.