Feb 3rd 2020

Life is a boring scum. I am wandering like a lost dream of words. I am sinking into the abyss of pathos. Mutiny is a million flowers scavenging a dead corpse. Feel tired and worn-out; feel like losing out the self to a rebellious resurrection. I want to peruse the meaning of life. I am feeling like losing my faith in God and I feel sorry as an empty canvas. Life has become a prison of routine. What had come of me? It’s been ages since I have a read a good book. I wonder why? I am the pillar of insomnia and depression. I wonder why I can’t end my life. Solitude, you infect me with fangs. Is writing a Moloch of dead dreams? I am depressed with nothing working favorably for me. Do dreams actualize life or are they merely wish fulfillment. May be in my previous birth I was a nomadic hunter who could sit around grandma’s fire pot and expurgate a story or two. Why does the avant garde decimate a good story or two? I am a mourning Kafka caught up in the riot of fin de siècle madness. My travel is limited to the four boundaries of a village. It is said that writers have to travel. I plant writer’s seeds with my pen. Even the iconic Joyce had a stint n Switzerland. I sink my lips into a cup of coffee as an art of rebellion. I love to wander, travel and write. I want to shatter the glass of memory and I want to relive the past as moments of happiness. Dark skies cloud my mind in epic sorrows. How does the prism of life actualize a quantum of experience? Cheer up there are better times ahead. I have to live in the castle of hope and make my dreams a wishing want of truth. Who does not want better money, space to travel, and enjoy life? Is Jesus the answer for all existence? Aren’t celebrity evangelists out to make a fast buck or two? Is life a hugger mugger of deception? Ideas in a novel are philosophical fictions. Is fiction the art of telling the self through a series of revelation? Is fiction the art of lying of the self? Do morals have place in the fiction of life? Myth is the solidarity of living through a series of fictional extracts. Every day I speak to myself to become a better fiction. I laugh all of myself in philosophical hyperboles. The body is a festoon of desires. Why can’t I be free and liberated? What causes me to doubt my desires? Are desires evil? They aren’t as long as they don’t offend a democracy. Passions are the mantras of poetry. Socrates said: ‘know thy self’ and I say ‘live yourself’. Words are to bear the dictum of truth. A good writer is in the art of making.

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