Blahsphemy

I have wasted enough time browsing through stranger's photographs. I know all their friends and their friends' friends and pets as well. I am jealous of some. I am sick from social networking. I need a break. But, look someone just poked me. Let me poke him back. 

When you point your finger at someone the rest of your fingers point at you. Deep. Diabolical. Dicey. Proof why I never pointed out anyone. And why I became nonexistent. So here I am pointing it out to you why I could never make a point.     

They retrieved her bloated body from underneath a railway bridge. "This will be our last journey together, as friends". Her last dialogue was playing like a broken record in his mind. He was too sleepy to think then. Now he has a lifetime to decipher what she said.  

I saw my words lying dead on a piece of white paper. They were floating bloated and lifeless in between the blue lines. A faint cry escaped my lips as I knew the reason for their misery. It was me who fed them to the white paper without sparing much thought. I was on a roll, I thought. But it was my pen that was bleeding wordless cliched words that made no sense. Just like the one before this line.     

See you tomorrow, she told him. How can she make such a promise, he thought. Life is so unpredictable these days. What if she dies in her sleep? What if she loses her sight? What if she is abducted? What if a bomb lands on her house? What if she forgets about her promise? What if she becomes a lunatic? But what if I die? Naah, that's impossible. Still, how can she think like that? 

Five words to start with  Seven to turn the plot around   Five more for a Haiku   

A story was stuck in his mind. It refused to let go. He tried everything to coax it. He stared at the white sheets of paper till his eyes refused to see. He keyed in every known word in the dictionary. He played all the songs twice from his iPod. He took a walk in the park. He danced in the rain. He rode off in to the sunset on his rickety scooter. He slept with another woman. He pretended to be mad. He read every book in the library. But his story stayed put, until his grandson stumbled upon his diary. But then, it was no longer his story in spite of his grandson telling everyone so.     

Some one ran 15 miles today. Someone celebrated her birthday. Someone shared her holiday pictures. Someone shared his angst. Someone cracked a badass joke. Someone lied. Someone loved. Someone aired his political view. Someone tried to be cool. Someone shared his honeymoon plan. Someone bought a new car. Someone poked someone. Someone insulted someone. Someone liked something. Someone had a baby. Someone looked at all this and decided to blog.  

What do I write when my inkwell has dried up? What do I write when the paper tears at every stroke? What do I write when words carry no meaning? What do I write when my characters just fade away? What do I write when my mind is a clean slate? What do I write when there is no story to be told? What do I write when reality is no longer real? What do I write when there are no readers? What do I write when my muse goes missing? What do I write?  

The jungle is fine as long as you are not bred in a zoo, the guide joked. Well, what they call the jungle was a zoo at some point of time. Then the bombing started. All the zookeepers disappeared, the animals were left to fend for themselves. Some were stolen, some eaten, and some died... those who escaped now rule this jungle. So don't be surprised if you see an animal so geographically out of context grazing next to you. It's just a zoo that has gone haywire. A zoo without boundaries and cages. A zoo where every animal is for himself. 

Why the heck am I writing melancholy stuff? Is it because I have nothing else to write? Maybe deep within I am missing my melancholy self. Or is it because I am way above all this crap? Is that me who is speaking? Why am I keying in this? Has the muse left you man? Have you become so old that your brain has frozen? I need a break. Look at all those questions I have asked. I avoided the question mark as it will make the previous sentence another question. So, where were we? Ah! We are in this man's muddled brain. See the grey cells aren't firing the way they ought to. He needs to be overhauled. Dude get me a spare brain from the refrigerator. Hey, you don't have permission for that. Only GOD has the power to do that. Then why the fuck do they call me Darwin?     

Life has been good. Everything seems to snap in to place. The music sounds good. The trees green. The world seems a better place. But then wasn't life like this for someone else even before I started seeing it this way?  

I must be dreaming, he thought. The flowers looked psychedelic. The grass a greener shade of green. The clouds fluffy as they can be. The birds cooing the sweetest songs. Even the sewer he lay was stinking differently. Look at that fool, someone shouted. Soon, a crowd formed around him. He smiled... for him nothing mattered as long as he was the center of attraction.