After the apocalypse

Sunday Morning, and, as some vicious voices from a distant dream fill my ears, I feel sapped of all energy, once again cannot muster enough strength to open my eyelids leaded under tons of growing invisible weight of guilt and realization. Finally, it seems to have been decided – probably by some invisible supreme almighty – for me to get up from my sleep – or not? – I do not know. So, I get down from – rather get up from my golden bed, adjust my halo behind the mid of my seemingly spherical head and head for the toothbrush. A new day a new world a new story.

Confirmation, Revelation and consolation:
If you have already guessed it by now
If your wit doesn’t permit you to believe
Or
If there isn’t sufficient grey matter up there
I confess for the benefit of all. I am God and it’s going to be hard day.

Someday

He woke up with a shattering sound. It felt as if the splintering glass pierced his eyes. He could still hear her speak, deep inside him, irritable and nagging as ever. It was as if .. as if .. but it could not be, the reflection-the echo of her last wail was still fresh in his mind. It was just a illusion, probably guilt. It will go away, he thought, it will fade with time. Yesterday had been a hard day, the scotch was still alive. And yet, somehow he felt light. He got to the window and pulled at the curtains, it was morning, a bright sunny morning. He could see his reflection in the glass, and that was when he felt the fear settle in.

She felt furious, a lifetime of trust and still a pungent heart. It was unworthy – love, emotions, life .. and she would end it all. His vengeance had been shrewd, sudden and incomplete .. it was upto her to put an end to it, give it an art form, a realism that it deserved .. it was her final straw, she opened the cap of the bottle and poured the venom in his scotch. No more .. she could take it no more. That was when she felt his hand on her back, the final push ..

Life is a journey to which death is the destination, it matters not what way to take, you will end up the same .. It did not feel like a fitting end to the story, or the story was not worthy of an ending so profound. A long puff .. as the smoke rose in front of the eyes, desperation set in .. Shift-Delete Enter

Someday, someday ..!

Writer’s block

“I think I have a story I can write about.”
“Or should I let it foster and fume for a few days.”
“Something else might come up, anyhow I don’t find time thesedays.”
“But, a half-cooked story is worse than none.”
“I may even start losing readers.”
“Like I have any.”
“Yes, I am probably right. It is worthless tapping fingers on the keyboard a extra half an hour writing stuff no one ever reads.”
“No, I should write whatever comes to my mind.”
“Which is nothing at all.”
“I don’t understand why is this, I used to be such a thinker.”
“Modesty is scarce, honesty even more so, but self-realization is what I look for.”
“This is probably the writer’s block.”
“A mind block when you speak whatever you think and the story that could be never surfaces.”
“Ah, for the sake of a better reason than busyness, I accept the writer’s block. It seems intellectual.”
“Doesn’t go with my personality.”

* Stunned Stumped Look .. !

A poem repeated .. just because it goes with the occasion ..

“These are dark times for word-smithy and letter-play
..
as once again the sword becomes mightier than the pen
..
Now thoughts and pots and what-nots are just wet clay
..
Sitting besides a dead soul outside the fearful den
..
Not what strikes nor what slays, but what stays
..
And buries the spirit of could-have-been men
..
Is a fostering story – a brewing thought and long delays
..
Tell me what to do, then !” – R!P