Anything But A Prayer
I meditate. When long breaths turn into heavy gasps I meditate. With pain and fear comes the real nectar, moksha. But I don’t meditate like you. The pen kisses the paper and pays obeisance. I simply took the devotee to its temple, but where is god? We both are still searching.
Potholes filled with last night’s rain, deafening shouts of fruit vendors and century old buildings with broken windows hanging dangerously is what comprises of a quick view of my city. How old is old I ask. How old is new I answer. Every second is new. Every minute is old. The paint is old. That boy is new. Time restricts us but it defines us. Defines our reality and being. But does the old and new really care of time? I’m already a minute old. Ask yourself! Don’t waste my time.
The old man farts out loud. The stench from the nearby drain covers up for him. Happy he bows in gratitude and falls in it. The raven’s croak couldn’t cover the loud splash. He shoos the bird above him. The avian shat on him and flew away. The people laughed and went by. The circus of the gully where water stops flowing and humour stops dying.
Should I call her? She must be mad since morning. What about my mother? She is home alone and desperate to hear my voice. Stupid Edward took away my charger and now my phone is on 3 percent. I choose, choosing, chose, chased, ch… power off. Edward calls for tea. I go. Years passed. Mother gone. So did Edward. Me, my tea and charger. Entropy is the rule of nature.
I open my eyes to my progress. Nothing but a few dots on paper. There is more ink on my finger than on the paper. I tried to rub it off and now there is a large smudge on the paper. That’s it. I’m done for today. A Masterpiece. I stare again. Bullshit, the page crushed beneath my foot. I open the crumpled sheet. Perfect now it is. Framed on the wall. I cry.
Write till you can call yourself an idiot in 50 different sentences. Praise the rascals, the bastards and other stupid synonyms.