Wednesday, October 30, 2002

I am walking. Straight with blinkers. On my eyes and in my head. Blinkers for survival is my election manifesto. Cello-taped existence.

The junction is crowded. The guy is smoking a beedi. A rickety cart and five kilos of near-rotten tomatoes. Do your quick calculations. At 5 rupees a kilo and a profit margin of 20%, it is 5 rupees on the road to cheap liquor and instant caffeine.
Riding down the bridge, hutments on both sides, cotton unravelling from filthy mattresses and cheap 'barsati' plastic at wholesale prices. My vehicle's swerving and my hands are steady. One rush and it'll go bang the yellow Zen, I hate yellow cars. I would dive off the bridge, vehicle and all if it weren't for the filthy water. Can't stand the smell...But I would dive off, yeah I would.

Beauty is a myth and I'm a delusional participant in the art of story-telling. Nothing exists, nothing survives. Creation is an act of impotence, by cowards who cannot face their inherent uselessness. We are factorials in a probability of grandeur.
Blinkers, blinkers, don't you dare touch them...

There are fragments in my head that are like splinters. They prick, they draw blood. All I want to do sometimes is spread the pain. With the vague logic of the afflicted, I believe that alleviation lies in proliferation.