Rings at Daybreak

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT AHEAD. PROCEED AT OWN RISK. I’M NOT ASKING YOU TO READ THIS. YOU WILL NOT BE DOING ME A FAVOUR.

I thought about the light. Everything’s… different. Not wrong, just different. The shadows aren’t formed; their vague penumbras are in the opposite direction from usual.

Joggers, strangely, walk. Perhaps they’re done. Or they never started. How cliched.

Consciousness? How much is enough? Or how little is too little? My my my, I’m really on a roll today. I see a row of pigeons perched across a telephone cable as I walk under it. They’re thinking about which one of them is the lucky one who gets a shot at shitting in my eye while I stare up at them apprehensively and walk on below them, perpendicular to their lofty straight line seatedness. Like a council of ministers from a bad movie. They’re all even facing the same way. Too bad there’s a godsend branch between them and me. The chosen one doesn’t even try.

I think about a lot of things I’ve thought about in the past and have meant to post about. Like what I think every time I’m in a men’s loo, peeing at the urinal. Is it okay to have a conversation with the other guys in a similar predicament? I don’t know. Some think it’s okay. Sort of say Hi and chat and tell you about their day, as if the occasion demands it or something. Same chaps who won’t nod at you if they pass you in the corridor. And where do you look when you’re peeing? At your weenie? Or straight ahead? Or stare upwards like it’s some big load being taken off your shoulders? Is there an ethic, a guide for these things? There ought to be. It’s extremely uncomfortable to not intuitively KNOW how to react in a certain circumstance. So I usually do all three… look down, make sure you’re hitting the pot and not dripping all over the place; stare straight ahead and wonder whether or not it’ll flush on its after you leave; and then sigh and look up, often to see misguided graffiti (naked woman, or better still a penis with ‘wut da fuk r u lukin at’ written badly next to it), or an advertisement (“Learn English in 24 days!”). Sometimes I see nothing, which is usually the best thing ever. Lets you sigh in peace. And I make a mental note of the location of that specific urinal, hoping no stupid sod comes and defiles what is as much mine as it is his.

Or do you, if the loos are terribly constructed, which most are, stare into the next one where your mate is peeing? Is that a done thing? WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, DUDE! STOP THAT SHIT! Aw Jesus… those kinda guys REALLY put me off; THAT is one bit of etiquette I’m pretty clear on. When I was young and innocent and well, altogether a lot shyier than I am right now, this classmate who was the tallest kid peered at me in the next booth – “Haha, i can see your weenie” – stupid shit.

I usually turn the other way – call it whatever you like people, laughs on me – just to affirm that I am so completely not interested in his thang.

I think about how I’ll probably summarise my thoughts in 5 short sentences then grope around in the darkness of more things to write.

I think about how i don’t really care about this blog or what Ameya will think about it.

Or anybody, for that matter. A, please don’t take offense. That is result of your hyperventilating about “pure shite” last night at flavours.

I think about Rilke. About what he said about finding beauty in ordinary life. Which is also pure shite. Because unless you can’t express it beautifully, it remains what it is – toilet talk.

I think about Vatz. And then Shef. And I’m frightened momentarily that I might not think about anything else till I get home, but that doesn’t happen. Then in rapid succession and in no particular order and with no particular criteria i think of people; Misha, Chica, Kaberi… KABERI? hmm… Mother Teresa, mother, Ameya, Bhai, random person behind the counter of a convinience store in… America? – the chinky guy from fight club! sachin, soumya, abhishek gupta the XLer, Tushar, Shweta, and a lot of people who might want their identities protected, sudhanshu kasewa, the worm, double hmm…

Stream of consciousness fades.

Some tales deserve to be told. Some don’t. Some can’t.

I’m a selfcentred egotistical fuck. A Leo no less, massage the ego, and you’d get anything you want out of me. This piece is fiction.

I don’t care

I don’t care

I have a lot of voices in my head

Maybe i’m trying to block them out by saying i don’t care. i find my life so ridiculously simple that i loathe it.

Well, not so much my life, but my thoughts. I am stupid.

I take one last drag and blow rings at daybreak. Flick my ciggy, hits a tree and lands on the ground. Burn anything? I hope not, but I don’t care enough to ensure that that doesn’t happen.

If one heard everything that went on in his/her head, s/he would go insane. I’m sure of it. How does one choose?

Dada, maybe I’ll read this 24 hours later and think it’s shit. I don’t care about that either. Not right now in any case. Cross that bridge when I get to it.

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3 Responses to “Rings at Daybreak”

  1. the silkworm Says:

    kasewa, it seems that you haven’t lost the Weekly in you. if nothing, this is very well written. screw the Weekly, it was a launchpad. Where have you launched yourself to?

  2. Field Commander M Says:

    ERM.

    Too much info about weenies.

  3. I agree with kria on that one..

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