Short-circuit life.

Life, the enigmatic suit of
unprecedented causality of likely
and unlikely events,
Journal of experimental mistakes Mistaken as experiences
Or just another verse from
A place or time.


The Post-Midnight Résumé

Here I go again,
Way to much coffee-
My recurring theme and
the post-three-am
Self induced emptiness,
Worthlessness in and pride of:
Imperfection, insecurities, and inabilities
Complimenting the confusion
in the confiscation of desires,
entrapment of emotions
and penning this
aimless free verse or
“Hashtag Such Meta Much Wow”

Maybe this endless frippery,
Should terminate here,
For I genuinely fear
When words would start Mirroring
Oh! they aren’t real,
neither are my dreams
Scaring, Scarring all
That’s left, or (what) I feel is left.
Would they paint a picture,
Colourless, sketchy,
Yet true to my Devils.
Art/ Some scribbled lines
On a piece of paper:
Worn out and folded
Without a cause or motivation
Vague and incoherent reductions
True to it’s creator.

[Ha. Do I have something else to do
Someone to care about or for.
Yes, let’s skip-on to that,
Like we skip on the title track
To download pieces of coloured moving pictures.

Sorry goodbye, and like kids these day say
Talk to you later.]

And rubbish-ly

Life… An Update.

Nights are quieter, hence just like any other Crusader I struggle with my existence at 2:14 am(to be precise) with a steel glass of espresso or whatever one can brew-up with instant coffee and an electric kettle which is whole point of writing this “mémoire” is the story of self discovery that: a lazy guy (“laaydhkhor” in my mother tongue) went into the kitchen to boil water, instead ended up removing black stain from the multipurpose pan in which we(as in my flatmate and i) cook literally everything in, and then cleaning up the not so dirty oven and the kitchen. Wow my mom would just be proud, I have had this perpetual question for her about what takes up her time after we finish dinner back at home, now i know, growing up one seems to know and un-know a lot of things.  And That’s all: well that and all that a wannabe writer can conjure up with his fickle mind.

P.S. I used the electric kettle for boiling up water

162 words from a block!

Maybe I should write something,
Something that clean. cutting edge,
Quite like your morning hot fix
Or the excuse you use to get out of bed.

Wouldn’t know if it would cut though:
Your lips like a strong brewed black coffee,
Or flow through your buds like a warm-
scented tea,
Or stirred sugar in it, if you like so.

My words aren’t the bunch of roses,
You find in the softbound book of your,
Neither are they suave
Like all those you browse on-
rocking in your arm chair.

They are but mine,
selfishly mine, or
selflessly your.
or even uselessly theirs.

At the being or the end
in the tempest of your Choosing,
I’d cut them out for your,
burn them for me.
Turn the page or
Put it upside-down.
Crumble it up.

The bin is but just an easy throw Away:
Maybe its better paired there
Drenched in all the ink I had Or
folded in that tailor-made jeans.

Randomness and the ability to type works of Art.

Sadly enough I had to exercise my universal adult franchise exactly more than once, at eighteen and now at twenty one, well as in ironically true it was just in vain, amounting to a nihilistic exertion both the times.

Well, almost certainly this is not about any of that, or that*, rather is about expectations that a rather younger, evolutionary inexperienced, me had from a then projected older evolved form of itself. The Darwinian theory of “karma” being a female canine, or to sand corrected a gender agonistic canine, is kind of a moral of the story here, given that you do not  consider canines to be faithfully friendly to humans or them being cute and aww so cuddly cuddly pooo rather take into consideration the mindless whining you get to here at odd times of the night, finally to end this punctuated blasphemy of a sentence is add a disclaimer to it: I am not a zoologist or an evolutionary biologist.

The mindless whining that comes as a side effect of karma is what can be justifiable paralleled to this aggregation of typed vector shapes you are reading and attempting to comprehend. So much for an introduction of sorts to a pre midlife crisis struck individuals attempt at being “creativity frustrated” with the perks of growing into a morphological human adult.

Now let’s start a generic random story about whatever a naïve version of the author, wow a few typed words go bring out the literary genius out of a random just about literate Individual, expected from life and did or did not achieve. Thus zooming into the perspective of a perfectly delusional human mind and its journey of “coming of age”, and feel a least bit kindred. Or wait, let’s just not do that for a change, I feel accomplished already and a bit better than from the time this garbage garage piece was started, so muggles and intelligent neurally programmed bots over this great wide beautiful and wonderful World and possible counterparts from a parallel universe Good Night and that’s all folks.


*consider the two thats to be some mutually exclusive and opposite and supposedly funny things, used for the vague purpose to inject referential / contextual humour.

Patterns: Old and New


Slippery, toxic and sequenced;
Pavements of doom,
Stripped with the extremes of
Monochromes: Denial and sloth.


Tempest, the summer’s signature,
wild and ravenous, swift in its actions.
Mildly appeasing, garnished in red
And streaks of indigo.


Darning tenets of Pride, love and
those fragile and frail Inhumanities.
Coloured dark tinted darker.


Black and White.
More zeroes than unities.

Clumsy Writing at its Zenith of CLUMSINESS

[read, if you will, at your own risk: NOT Proofread.]

So, its like every stupid dawn, this hyper-(de)caffeinated idiot inside my brain experiences a whole lot of neuron activity shouting out “Dude, write something” like it or not, there are times when I feel like writing whatever agglomerate of letters that come to The “idiot inside my brain”(assuming that I have one)[the idiot: called “mind”, by people who do not need to blabber phrases for every simple thing ] is like pain in the backyard, and then there are these shimmering moments of glory when its more of a “Wow, I am doing something gallant” pat on the shoulder kind of thing.
So, basically I am a typecast good for nothing fellow, who doesn’t care about anything that it doesn’t like, like for example I like referring to myself as an it, avoiding gender discourse: no am certainly not, its for the love hate relationship i have with objectifying things. Terminologies and its “theories” are not a pursuit my now empty tea/coffee/water mug attempts to follow, so lets just keep it simple I like being an entity/ object for all meaningful purposes that serve me. Complimentary to it is an escape from being a “real” being/person and the truck load of mumbo-jumbo rules/guidelines to abide by.
F the rules, no not all of them, some of them are pretty cool, and they kind of help me with getting past a lot of crap that come as bundled package with this thing called surviving and or existing, or at-least a least desperate attempt for the same.
The problem with spontaneity and me is that my thoughts are very much random and omnidirectional, and hence the plausible outcome is generally a Zero or something, I don’t quite like counting and or discrete variables, although combinatorics looked far less troubling to me than integration, still. I “like” attributing this to the the chronic indecisiveness and generic confusion that lingers around me at any instance.
Seems like my “processing intensive task” is done so here is the part of any conversation I like the most : Punkt [ . ], like how it sounds cool in this Language.

P.S. This post is kind of like about like, from Laik(old stupid Grade 3 Joke)