So. I'm a writer.

So I can write.

Big deal.

Does that mean I need to make a career out of it? Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life sitting behind a computer or with a pen in hand struggling to find words that describe perfectly the exact emotion I feel, or my character feels, while trying (in vain) to look like I don’t give a shit about the rest of the world, that’s slowly starting to spiral down into madness and chaos?

(Like I care. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life begging the world for solitude and quiet and peace and go all emo to “just leave me the fuck alone, will you!”  while secretly lusting for the world’s approval of what I so desperately try to get the world to notice?

(I don’t need you. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to drown myself in hard liquor and slowly burn the insides of my lungs with that pack of cigarettes a day I just CANNOT do without, sitting outside a coffee shop with three empty cups of cappuccino (Grandes, naturally) staring into space giving off a mysterious aura of *wait for it, and I’m only using this word to be on par with what what I mentioned in the first paragraph about always having to find the right word, NOT because I’m out of words, which I am SO not. (Hmph!)* mystery?

(*sip, puff, aura* Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to live “alone” in a studio apartment the rest of my life, going out only to be inspired by the people walking past me into the coffee shop and by the night sky or the rain or the rainbow or the sunset or the lyric of my (current) favorite song, and only bringing home people when I’m horny, and need that post-coital smoke to inspire me too?

(Sex? Hmph.)

Does it? DOES IT?!?



Oh it does?

*emo, sip, puff, aura, post-coital puff*

Unmoved

He tried to move. But he couldn't.

His hands weren't bound. Neither were his legs. No iron chains or rope binding him to a wall or tying him down in a chair. No visible injuries on him, except for a long-forgotten, but clearly visible scar on his arm from an accident he'd gotten into on his first motorcycle. In all physical senses, he could've just as easily carried his wife and walked out of the room, as he could've batted his eye lids.

But no, this didn't have anything to do with his current physical state. Neither did it have to do with the hospital room he was in. He was not alone (well, technically alone NOW), but the room still felt empty to him. The air around him was ice cold, a tell-tale sign of the proficiency with which the air conditioning repairmen had worked just the previous day. It made him cold, but he didn't care. The cold air wasn't even the last thing on his mind.

He stood, holding in his arms an hour-old baby. His baby. His own child, who he wasn't even looking at let alone bother to notice that it was crying it's eyes out, bawling like, well, a little baby. Only an hour before, it was his wife in his arms, and he was holding her, comforting her, willing her to push, to give birth to that beautiful baby girl that now had taken her place in his arms.

One would say at the time, the girl had no idea what had happened. But the girl knew. Just like her father knew.

He tried to move. But he couldn't...as he stared into his dead wife's empty eyes.

Happy?

I've been a slave too long.

That constant feeling you're being watched. Or maybe you're just lonely.

So it arrived this morning.

I woke up with a start, trying not to think about how many times I’d snoozed the alarm, wishing I could shove my foot up my ass for being such a lazy fuck.

And then I saw it.

I wasn’t scared. I didn’t panic. For some strange reason, I was almost expecting it to be there.  It looked at me in the eye, sitting calm and still in the corner of the room, not moving, not saying a word. It just stared.

It followed me out of my room, and I wondered whether it would follow me into the bathroom. I wouldn’t have liked that at all. I’d spent a good five minutes in bed trying to get used to it, but I still wasn’t comfortable with it watching me undress and bathe. However, it was polite enough to wait outside while I bathed.

It didn’t do anything while I got dressed for work. It didn’t do anything as I found the bread that was supposed to be my breakfast covered in mould. It didn’t do anything as I double checked my pockets for my phone and keys and locked my room.

Its weight as it rode behind me on my bike seemed to be making my journey longer than the ten minutes it usually takes me to get to work. Turning and manoeuvring around the traffic felt like an hour’s workout. Almost lost my balance a couple of times. When I finally reached, I glanced at my watch. I wasn’t late. It really did take me just ten minutes.

It sat next to me at my desk, still staring, as I worked through the day, giving me company during the lunch break too. It never left my side.

As I got used to its constant presence being around me, I found myself starting to get used to it. Found myself being glad it was around. Glad for the company it gave, I guess. Maybe it felt the same way too. I certainly didn’t see why it wouldn’t like to be around me all the time. I like to think I’m that nice a guy.

I brought it back home with me, along with a chicken shawarma I planned to have for my dinner. (The shawarma was good. A little dry, and would’ve tasted better if the Persian guy down the road that made it had used pita bread instead of a roti, but all in all a good shawarma.) It didn’t complain or ask for a shawarma for itself. It just watched me eat. It didn’t seem too hungry anyway.

I got into bed and tucked myself in. I turned around to say goodnight to it, but I couldn’t see it. It was gone.

I figured it just needed to be around someone for the day to make itself feel better about, well, itself.

I rolled back into a comfortable sleeping position, one that was just close enough to the wall touching my bed so that I wouldn’t fall off (as I used to frequently when I was a kid, therefore leaving me with a life-long fear of “falling off the edge”, something that still torments me with sleepless nights through nightmares) but far enough give me room to stretch and roll and kick in my sleep in the night (as a friend of mine very rudely found out last Saturday when I kicked him in the face several times in the night), said quietly, “Goodnight, you piece of shit,” and dozed off almost immediately after.

Music

Random shit I wrote for a placement exam.

Growing up in a family of musicians, music has always been something I’ve been passionate about even as a kid.

From my grandmother singing me to sleep, to my dad’s country and classic rock music blaring every weekend on the music system, it has all shaped the interest in music I have right now, influencing my tastes and preferences in music.

My day has to start and end with music, with my earphones on from the moment I wake up to the time I get in to bed. Living without music is not only unthinkable for me, but even the thought of it is suffocating.

What I find in music, is not just a bunch of notes and beats strung together with someone singing random words into a microphone. For me, music reflects a musician’s and lyricist’s soul that can be mirrored by people who feel the same way around the world, no matter who or where you are, and no matter what kind of music you listen to.

I personally have no prerogatives against any form of music; music is music. It may be Bollywood, filmy stuff or classical Beethoven, or The Sex Pistols or Jimi Hendrix or Zakher Hussain. It’s all music. I may not listen to each genre as much as the rest, I’ve got my own preferences too. But it all forms a part of this musical world where everyone can have a say about anything they feel like, be it love, heartbreak, rebellion, war, peace or even plain human laziness.

Learning to play the guitar since the age of 7, I’ve been exposed to both contemporary as well as older styles of music that has only made my obsession with it grow with every guitar solo, or lyric or drum roll I hear.

What I love most about music is the lyrical aspect of the whole thing. Lyrics are what the music revolves around, and I’ve always found the fact that one can write such brilliant, meaningful lyrics while maintaining rhyme and rhythm extremely mystifying and fascinating.

Of course, I’ve tried my hand at being a musician too; playing acoustic sets at a coffee shop near my place and having even strangers around me clapping and singing along was one the best feelings I’ve ever had in my entire life. Maybe I didn’t give it my best though, for then I’m sure I’d be a full-time musician by now, but I guess I just didn’t trust myself enough.

Then again, if life ever found it fair to give me a second chance, I’d be picking up my guitar and lyrics book without any hesitation and running out that door, into a life that would make me happier than anything else in this world.