Rebecca

How is it that you can be haunted by the non existent? Fear takes many forms- I had learnt in school. But little did I know my fear would be a faceless beauty. She was me and I was her. But somehow at every step, she was shining brighter.

“Close your mind,” my friends said.

“Hush mind. I am trying to sleep,” I told that beast every night.

But all it did was show her in black satin and red lipstick. She smiled me a crooked smile and looked at me as though i were an ant deemed to be crushed. She lurked in my mind and hid behind veils. She was the other. I feared her and I fear her still.

She is my Rebecca and oh do I love her dearly.

 

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The editor’s tale

It’s not always that I get to open my laptop and scrutinize the work of others. Today, after procrastinating and coming to terms with the weight on my shoulders, I finally sat down with a cup of black coffee and read the first line of some obscure article.

It made me cringe- not in disgust but in apprehension. Someone out there, at some point in my life, will look at my work with the same hawked eyes and critique every coma that I use. That day, I would be sitting helplessly on the other side of the veil waiting for the verdict like a sinner on judgement day.

But not today. Today was my day of power and authority. I could feel my heartbeat quicken; the writer’s fate was in my hand and in some small way, I was going to make or break his life. ‘Impact it’, if you may. It would either be a crash landing or it would  be a smooth one.

The sadist in me looked at the doc file with glee. It could finally use the virtual red ink on every misspelled word, every misplaced punctuation and every wrong usage- sometimes out of spite, too. If the words are a writer’s baby, it was time to go on a kidnapping spree for the sadist ‘me’.

The more rational part was, however, scared. I would be blamed for any additional coma in the article by people unknown to me. I was transported to the veil again. Only this time, both the writer and I were huddled together like a bunch of scared kids waiting to be reprimanded.

God! What pressure to be faced for one damn article and God what a dilemma to be faced by one small mind- to kill or try not to be killed!

Promises to the world

I solemnly swear to make this minuscule space on the internet, that I claim as mine, a place of refuge for my thoughts and a way of letting all my pent up emotions out. This space will contain magic of all sorts and will not be subjected to morality, ethics or any other masochistic nonsense. It is dedicated to free thought and action.

I am a storyteller and this is how i choose to tell my stories- with pomp and circumstance. My stories will be told through free verse, prose and poetry. It will contain art and through these mediums of expression, I wish to create an imaginary world where thoughts are free and the mind has the strength to take actions in accordance to those very thoughts.

I will challenge tradition, rant when i want and most of all, be honest in the way i think and write. I will show all aspects of the human mind and revel in its complexities. Furthermore, I will take the side of those who are voiceless and less powerful. I promise to not be scared of authority and to ask questions where I deem necessary.

I will be my own master and this space invites all those who wish for a better world and are ready to work towards it. Oh and, I guarantee the reader absurdity for absurdity leads to laughter and a healthy life. My blog will feature crooked men, the girl who looked like a guy, pedestrians, exiled writers and pot bellied artists.

Movie reviews, color of ice cream, beef steaks, depression, LGBT rights, women issues, political jibberish, dreams, etc are my best friends.

So, let the absurdity begin!

Old parchments and cold tea

Imagine a room stripped of dignity;

Now add an old tattered sofa in a corner

and a dead fish tank in the opposite.

It doesn’t have to be fancy- just decaying.

 

Color the walls dirty yellow

and add splash of black smug here and there.

Hang old photos:

laughing faces and embracing arms.

Comfortable isn’t it?

 

Put a rug that has been slept on

and add the musty smell to it.

Don’t forget the old shoes and the coat hanger

with just a lonely coat for company.

Familiar?

 

This room had no windows;

only a wooden door with a broken knob.

A ceiling fan and warm lights

that flicker like the firefly at dawn.

Feeling hot already?

 

The cold tea cup has a grim in the bottom

that smiles across the yellow.

The parchment has ink across it

and the word writer written in bold.

The pen is broken.

 

You can hear laboured breathing.

Now place a man with a protruding belly

sprawled on the couch;

bubbles in his mouth and the stench of smoke about him.

 

He is a writer by profession

and this is his life.

Now try living it and tell me how you feel.