(I wrote this at work one time on a little writing pad and only just found it while cleaning my room -1st January 2009)
The weather is exquisite.
There’s a soft breeze blowing that makes the trees sway ever so gently.
The green overwhelmed by the concrete, but still, everything is almost idyllic.
At least from where I’m sitting.
The droll and boring environment coupled with tremendously dull conversation makes for a delight to exit.
The filing of papers and the organization of the filing,
The post-its and the pens and Kangaroo’s punch,
All coloured vibrant pink, purple and blue,
Shiny and well coated but utterly monochrome.
Underneath all of the hustle
And behind all the bustle,
Sits a young man getting a feel of his surroundings.
An average young fellow probably yearning to earn
And earning to learn
And start a career that’s lucrative and profitable and enough to make a living
And more to save for later
And to buy a car and make rent
And pay for tuition and possibly, yes possibly,
Buy that motorcycle he always wanted.
But is he really that guy?
He sits
Bored out of his wits
How much longer must he smile politely at the woman sitting at the desk to the right in accounting who doesn’t look like she’s changed in days?
She’s probably just scared of change; to change.
She doesn’t want what he wants.
If he wants other things, why must he sit there?
You have to wait your turn and you have to play only after your cards are dealt and you can NOT put all your eggs in one basket, he is told.
But he can feel it. It’s his ace in the hole.
BIG OR BUST.
The breeze hits his face as he stares down twenty storeys.
HE JUMPS.
Does he fall or fly?
System of a Down (8th September 2008)
Before I begin, let me assure you that I am no cynic. I am a peace-loving, easily contented fellow who tries to see the lighter side of life. That said, some time in May, I lost my wallet. Now that may seem like a predicament to some, but I resigned myself to the fact that there wasn’t much money in it, the papers were replaceable and I could always buy myself a new wallet. I should have taken one more aspect into account – I live in India. That translates loosely to – yes, the money and the wallet are not a big deal. But the papers? Ah, there’s the rot. My driver’s license and ATM card were the only valuable items I needed to replace quickly, and so began a tedious and troublesome adventure that I am about to recount to you, as painfully yet pleasantly as possible.
Thankfully, I am familiar with a certain ‘agent’ at the RTO so the driver’s license worked its way back to its owner in due time. Of course I had to grease a few palms and the occasional trip to remind the fellows at this quaint governmental enterprise their actual job role. But a little determination and some decent luck (the official in charge must have woken up on the RIGHT side of the bed) finally culminated and I was in happy possession of a brand new license. It took a month, of course, but one really can’t do much more than wait. I choose to exclude an event that took place some time in the interim, when a police man refused to accept my story, in spite of the fact that all my car registration papers and even that darn PUC slip was in place. After coughing up 200 rupees as a ‘fine’, I decided that it was a cost I would have to bear for my carelessness. (the loss of my wallet, still being the topic in question)
The ATM card, however, was an entirely different story. I acted briskly, and within a day, an application for a fresh card was issued. This time the running around was less of a task, considering my branch is 5 minutes away, on foot. But then of course it needed to be done. I was discouraged to hear that a new card would take 21 days to be replaced. But again, I decided to cut my losses. After all, it could have been much worse, if some large bills happened to be in my leather money holder at the time of its escape. And so begins the wait. I try not to let it bother me; I’d just have to resolve to borrow money from the mother or perhaps,when in dire need, visit the bank and stand in a queue and write an application to withdraw and all that jazz. (shudder)
21 days pass. 22. 23. 30. 45. 60! It may seem that I have lost my grasp of ascending numbers, but unfortunately, two months was the holy figure. But I had gotten by alright, and everything was downhill from here. Look at the bright side, right? So here I am, armed with my new card, marching straight to the sacred place of money. Wait. What’s this? Incorrect pin?
I am gently informed that I was to wait for a new pin and that it would take a few working days. I have never yet understood the significance of the word ‘working’ in that statement. If you ask me, it’s just a stalling mechanism, to further alleviate the responsibilities of the powers that be. A few working days pass, and then a couple ‘working’ weeks. But hark! An envelope in my mail box has the mystical number that would prove to be the gateway to my bank account. I rush to the ATM and am greeted with a message that goes something like this – “I’m sorry, dear valuable customer. Apparently some twit went and pushed the wrong pin too many times and now we’ve gone and blocked your card. Have a nice day, sucker.” These words do little to comfort me, and this peace-loving narrator is beginning to lose his patience. But tread on, he does, and applies for a new pin, after a thorough justification of his mistake. I will not talk about the time I have spent waiting in lines in this entire process, because it would bore you to read it, as much as it bored me to be involved in this grueling procedure. Unfortunately, the word ‘entire’ used in the previous statement is fallacious, because that would imply a finish line. As you continue to read, please don’t expect a pot of gold, because this tragic tale is unmistakably not a rainbow, you silly leprechaun.
Present day: 8th September, 2008.
Your humble and charming narrator pays a visit to his favourite bank because he has been summoned to collect his brand new card and pin! It is indeed an exciting turn of events, considering he had almost lost all hope. He drives to the bank and picks up his card and pin and proudly goes to the ATM across the street. During this epic walk, he recalls not so long ago, he was asked to lend some of his precious account money to a friend and actually resorted to withdrawing the money from the sorrowfully not-so-digital tellers at the friendly banking institution. His friend was at the hospital, and needed a meagre sum of Rs. 600, so he used an ink filled vessel with a nib like machine at its end to mark in what seemed like English letters on a piece of paper and submitted it at the counter. The powerful man at the counter needed to see more than the poor man’s pass book, useless ATM card and driver’s license. He wanted to see the man’s cheque book. Cheque book? Our protagonist had never applied for one, so how was he supposed to present it? “Oh wait,” says another uninterested employee, “we have it right here!” Relief and surprise filled his mind, and after taking ten times as long (without exaggerating) this, your cheerful narrator, had successfully withdrawn money from the bank!
This was it. The moment of reckoning. He pushes his fated card into the machine and uses his newly issued pin number and is very precarious with his usage of the wonderful machine he hasn’t seen in so so long… Incorrect pin! He is not in the least bit amused, but also, not unexpectedly, not too distraught. He knows too well, the pain a victim of the system must face, in their endeavours at co-existing with the beast itself. He goes back to the bank and tries to rectify this new found problem. Apparently, the bank’s beautiful online system hasn’t kept a record of its recent issue of the card. This man stands poignantly holding his card, as he stares at a screen telling him he isn’t. He looks up at the ceiling.
“Relationships beyond banking”, read the sign. A smile swept across his tired and long face. The irony seemed a bit much. Perhaps they’ve gotten too engaged with maintaining their relationships that they’ve forgotten to do that ‘banking’ bit, he muses. Then again, their relationship aspect is in itself, a piece of art.
The wind blows in his face, and the fresh air chimes against his body, as he drives away into the sunset, back towards his own private den. A haven for his contemptuous albeit peace-loving mind.
Good day to you, dear readers, good day. The difference is in difference.
Thankfully, I am familiar with a certain ‘agent’ at the RTO so the driver’s license worked its way back to its owner in due time. Of course I had to grease a few palms and the occasional trip to remind the fellows at this quaint governmental enterprise their actual job role. But a little determination and some decent luck (the official in charge must have woken up on the RIGHT side of the bed) finally culminated and I was in happy possession of a brand new license. It took a month, of course, but one really can’t do much more than wait. I choose to exclude an event that took place some time in the interim, when a police man refused to accept my story, in spite of the fact that all my car registration papers and even that darn PUC slip was in place. After coughing up 200 rupees as a ‘fine’, I decided that it was a cost I would have to bear for my carelessness. (the loss of my wallet, still being the topic in question)
The ATM card, however, was an entirely different story. I acted briskly, and within a day, an application for a fresh card was issued. This time the running around was less of a task, considering my branch is 5 minutes away, on foot. But then of course it needed to be done. I was discouraged to hear that a new card would take 21 days to be replaced. But again, I decided to cut my losses. After all, it could have been much worse, if some large bills happened to be in my leather money holder at the time of its escape. And so begins the wait. I try not to let it bother me; I’d just have to resolve to borrow money from the mother or perhaps,when in dire need, visit the bank and stand in a queue and write an application to withdraw and all that jazz. (shudder)
21 days pass. 22. 23. 30. 45. 60! It may seem that I have lost my grasp of ascending numbers, but unfortunately, two months was the holy figure. But I had gotten by alright, and everything was downhill from here. Look at the bright side, right? So here I am, armed with my new card, marching straight to the sacred place of money. Wait. What’s this? Incorrect pin?
I am gently informed that I was to wait for a new pin and that it would take a few working days. I have never yet understood the significance of the word ‘working’ in that statement. If you ask me, it’s just a stalling mechanism, to further alleviate the responsibilities of the powers that be. A few working days pass, and then a couple ‘working’ weeks. But hark! An envelope in my mail box has the mystical number that would prove to be the gateway to my bank account. I rush to the ATM and am greeted with a message that goes something like this – “I’m sorry, dear valuable customer. Apparently some twit went and pushed the wrong pin too many times and now we’ve gone and blocked your card. Have a nice day, sucker.” These words do little to comfort me, and this peace-loving narrator is beginning to lose his patience. But tread on, he does, and applies for a new pin, after a thorough justification of his mistake. I will not talk about the time I have spent waiting in lines in this entire process, because it would bore you to read it, as much as it bored me to be involved in this grueling procedure. Unfortunately, the word ‘entire’ used in the previous statement is fallacious, because that would imply a finish line. As you continue to read, please don’t expect a pot of gold, because this tragic tale is unmistakably not a rainbow, you silly leprechaun.
Present day: 8th September, 2008.
Your humble and charming narrator pays a visit to his favourite bank because he has been summoned to collect his brand new card and pin! It is indeed an exciting turn of events, considering he had almost lost all hope. He drives to the bank and picks up his card and pin and proudly goes to the ATM across the street. During this epic walk, he recalls not so long ago, he was asked to lend some of his precious account money to a friend and actually resorted to withdrawing the money from the sorrowfully not-so-digital tellers at the friendly banking institution. His friend was at the hospital, and needed a meagre sum of Rs. 600, so he used an ink filled vessel with a nib like machine at its end to mark in what seemed like English letters on a piece of paper and submitted it at the counter. The powerful man at the counter needed to see more than the poor man’s pass book, useless ATM card and driver’s license. He wanted to see the man’s cheque book. Cheque book? Our protagonist had never applied for one, so how was he supposed to present it? “Oh wait,” says another uninterested employee, “we have it right here!” Relief and surprise filled his mind, and after taking ten times as long (without exaggerating) this, your cheerful narrator, had successfully withdrawn money from the bank!
This was it. The moment of reckoning. He pushes his fated card into the machine and uses his newly issued pin number and is very precarious with his usage of the wonderful machine he hasn’t seen in so so long… Incorrect pin! He is not in the least bit amused, but also, not unexpectedly, not too distraught. He knows too well, the pain a victim of the system must face, in their endeavours at co-existing with the beast itself. He goes back to the bank and tries to rectify this new found problem. Apparently, the bank’s beautiful online system hasn’t kept a record of its recent issue of the card. This man stands poignantly holding his card, as he stares at a screen telling him he isn’t. He looks up at the ceiling.
“Relationships beyond banking”, read the sign. A smile swept across his tired and long face. The irony seemed a bit much. Perhaps they’ve gotten too engaged with maintaining their relationships that they’ve forgotten to do that ‘banking’ bit, he muses. Then again, their relationship aspect is in itself, a piece of art.
The wind blows in his face, and the fresh air chimes against his body, as he drives away into the sunset, back towards his own private den. A haven for his contemptuous albeit peace-loving mind.
Good day to you, dear readers, good day. The difference is in difference.
And the shoes come off (2nd June 2008)
It has come to my notice that I notice how noticeable and/or note worthy the choices I make are.
This disturbs me.
I am an obsessive compulsive thinker and this I will and can afford to admit. Obsession. Without taking a look at the dictionary, I am made to believe that it’s derogatory. But then I don’t even buy into ethics so why do I even care? I think that’s it. That’s the crux of the matter. I am torn, confused, conflicted about whether or not I should care... and more importantly, what falls under my circle of care/concern and what doesn’t. I also tend to think about whether I should even draw a circle around my concerns. The debate there, is to do with the fact that I am going to be concerned about certain things anyway, so why not organize the situation, considering the fact that I like and indulge in organization pretty much 25 hours a day. Now see that 25 hour witty bit there? I don’t actually appreciate that. What’s with the unnecessary hour just to show how much of a thing I do is done? I mean, you get it. So why the generic and silly 25 that’s supposed to take your mind through the following thoughts: “25? Hey wait a minute... oh! Haha how remarkably witty! Tee hee”
I have found that once I get on a topic, I move somewhat briskly to other connected topics only to find myself back and yes, definitely feel responsible to complete everything I’d like to express including the tangential topics, but the sense of rambling sets upon me (take now for example) and I feel unsettled and once and if I’m done finally, what was it that I even took from the little monologue? Why do I begin monologues? Is monologue the right word?
I want to delete this little document. But I’d also like to keep it for later when I can browse through the shitty bits of writing I have gone and done now and then and ever so often. Most of them are deleted. Particularly the ones I’m ashamed of. But then shame walks out the door just as soon as morality does, which is closely followed by ethics.
I’m an immoral idiot who would like to spend the rest of my life whimsical and carefree, with loads of fun and sex and brilliant food. Just like the next bloke. So there’s nothing “wrong” with this... but can I? Can I float through the rest of my existence? Can I survive and revel in this world without buying into society and paying extra for the tee shirt near the cotton candy stall? Who am I looking for? What am I looking for? Rush. Immediate happiness. That’s what. And I know that... but heck, there has to be an organized way of getting it damnit. The pursuit of immediate happiness. Just for the sake of seeing and further proving that I can, here comes a 3 minute poem/song on this very pursuit:
Pick up that wrapper and put off that light switch
Oh what does that matter to me?
Well it doesn’t and shouldn’t but then again, you’ll see
A hundred years from now the world will melt and all you’ll have is plastic
Well not you, but your great grand daughter and her little sister.
Global warming, poverty, child trafficking, molestation and AIDS for good measure
All a bunch of hogwash
Life is and must be filled with cold beer, women and plenty of leisure
The rest is.
Balloons, butterflies, kittens and fluff
Pink roses and ice cream and other stuff
That’s what you’re looking for aren’t you?
Go get it. Go fucking get it. Have sex along the way.
Go murder that chicken and swim with the fish
Sharpen your blade and act on your wish
Today’s the day to reclaim your life
Do what you want
What could go wrong?
C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon.
Nothing to prove and nothing to lose
Nothing to pick and nothing to choose
Existence is beautiful, now lift up ‘em bricks
Walk away and slam the door
Build your own house and fill it with sticks
My back is feeling sore.
Just don’t be tripping on those fucking ethics.
I like nothing of what I’ve just written. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and here comes another party. I’m consumed with alcohol and society and friends and opinions. No room to drift or float and no drive to get out and do it. I feel tainted. I don’t like that. Nothing to prove and nothing to lose, V. Now go and have yourself a good time. Get in the shower and wash away that dirt, that taint. Soap off the dust and get out, you must. But first, off with those shoes :D
This disturbs me.
I am an obsessive compulsive thinker and this I will and can afford to admit. Obsession. Without taking a look at the dictionary, I am made to believe that it’s derogatory. But then I don’t even buy into ethics so why do I even care? I think that’s it. That’s the crux of the matter. I am torn, confused, conflicted about whether or not I should care... and more importantly, what falls under my circle of care/concern and what doesn’t. I also tend to think about whether I should even draw a circle around my concerns. The debate there, is to do with the fact that I am going to be concerned about certain things anyway, so why not organize the situation, considering the fact that I like and indulge in organization pretty much 25 hours a day. Now see that 25 hour witty bit there? I don’t actually appreciate that. What’s with the unnecessary hour just to show how much of a thing I do is done? I mean, you get it. So why the generic and silly 25 that’s supposed to take your mind through the following thoughts: “25? Hey wait a minute... oh! Haha how remarkably witty! Tee hee”
I have found that once I get on a topic, I move somewhat briskly to other connected topics only to find myself back and yes, definitely feel responsible to complete everything I’d like to express including the tangential topics, but the sense of rambling sets upon me (take now for example) and I feel unsettled and once and if I’m done finally, what was it that I even took from the little monologue? Why do I begin monologues? Is monologue the right word?
I want to delete this little document. But I’d also like to keep it for later when I can browse through the shitty bits of writing I have gone and done now and then and ever so often. Most of them are deleted. Particularly the ones I’m ashamed of. But then shame walks out the door just as soon as morality does, which is closely followed by ethics.
I’m an immoral idiot who would like to spend the rest of my life whimsical and carefree, with loads of fun and sex and brilliant food. Just like the next bloke. So there’s nothing “wrong” with this... but can I? Can I float through the rest of my existence? Can I survive and revel in this world without buying into society and paying extra for the tee shirt near the cotton candy stall? Who am I looking for? What am I looking for? Rush. Immediate happiness. That’s what. And I know that... but heck, there has to be an organized way of getting it damnit. The pursuit of immediate happiness. Just for the sake of seeing and further proving that I can, here comes a 3 minute poem/song on this very pursuit:
Pick up that wrapper and put off that light switch
Oh what does that matter to me?
Well it doesn’t and shouldn’t but then again, you’ll see
A hundred years from now the world will melt and all you’ll have is plastic
Well not you, but your great grand daughter and her little sister.
Global warming, poverty, child trafficking, molestation and AIDS for good measure
All a bunch of hogwash
Life is and must be filled with cold beer, women and plenty of leisure
The rest is.
Balloons, butterflies, kittens and fluff
Pink roses and ice cream and other stuff
That’s what you’re looking for aren’t you?
Go get it. Go fucking get it. Have sex along the way.
Go murder that chicken and swim with the fish
Sharpen your blade and act on your wish
Today’s the day to reclaim your life
Do what you want
What could go wrong?
C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon.
Nothing to prove and nothing to lose
Nothing to pick and nothing to choose
Existence is beautiful, now lift up ‘em bricks
Walk away and slam the door
Build your own house and fill it with sticks
My back is feeling sore.
Just don’t be tripping on those fucking ethics.
I like nothing of what I’ve just written. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and here comes another party. I’m consumed with alcohol and society and friends and opinions. No room to drift or float and no drive to get out and do it. I feel tainted. I don’t like that. Nothing to prove and nothing to lose, V. Now go and have yourself a good time. Get in the shower and wash away that dirt, that taint. Soap off the dust and get out, you must. But first, off with those shoes :D
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