Bangalore.

Where is it?

Who took it away?

I want it back.

My head is not working. I’m typing a thousand words and erasing them. I don’t even know why. Sometimes I write and then by the end of the sentence everything is skewed, off-center, like I aimed for the bulls-eye and shot myself.

No it’s not me. It’s the people around me, it’s the city around me, it’s the conversations, it’s the people coming out of offices and the same people going to offices in the morning, it’s the familiarity that is not comfortable, it’s the familiarity that is choking, unpleasant. If it were a race I would think of running, keeping the pace, finding the motion in the purpose. But nothing seems to be worthy of an effort to attain.

Every morning I finish my breakfast and consider the possibilities. Weigh them. Should I have a cigarette? Should I fuck me up first thing in the morning? Should I just be typical and ordinary? Like everyone?

So I lock the door to my house, slip the keys unconsciously in my pocket, walk, unconsciously down the stairs, the morning air is fresh and I am fresh too, from a hot bath and my dirty green jacket keeps me friendly warm. I think of the jacket and I think of her. And then I stop myself and I think of nothing.

I walk down the stairs. Meet no one. See no one. Someone pretty would be nice. Wouldn’t it? False comfort? Why am I in love with every pair of pretty eyes? And why is she so collectively defined by everything, everyone who is beautiful.

Sometimes I wonder that my creative fantasy is not working anymore. Sometimes I wonder that people are just what they are. Fearful, frail, uninspiring, dormant; I’m willing to compromise. Forget what I really want, and find what I conditionally want, right then. A modest escape; good music; self-preservation could just do the trick.

So I reach the end of the downstairs and realize that I could’ve taken the elevator. Dream state still lingers on, and I drag it along till I reach my waiting point.

The crossroad

(in reality, it’s a intersection of four roads, with traffic lights and early morning office traffic…its not pretty…but then I’m dreaming… I dream bare land in all four directions and a man on a motorcycle, the sound of his motorbike like the rhythm in his chest… waiting for his mind to define his identity...then...a flash decision, an accident of clear conscience, an infinite pause…before he powers up his motorcycle, kicking up a haze, brown cloud of dust…and as the cloud settles down, silence surrounds once again and I see a speck in the horizon…one more motorcycle, one more rider?)

I wonder as I sit under the tree beside the transformer beside the streetlight if ill reach a conclusion through all this hypnotic irrelevance. People standing patient wrapped in their own cocoons, inner sanctums, one guy reading ‘Jack Kerouak ’, catches my eye, but I quickly walk past him. Beat generation. Beaten generation.

There is a girl too. Beautiful hair. And tense skin on her face. Nervous but she paints stone cold gray calm, etched in stone; stiff, striking, lovely, deep, constant.

Now I’m revolving, in my revolving chair. Fair enough?