Sometimes I write. This is a place for such times. Honestly writing doesn't come naturally to me. Nothing does actually. What I am passionate about is doing nothing in particular, thinking nothing in particular.
But sometimes I read. And sometimes I like it too. And I like reading what I write when sometimes I manage to. Perhaps that is why i write.
Jazz. Backache. Boredom.
Cognac, ice swirling clockwise.
Pleasure in disguise.
a haiku
The fishes, they died
each contemplating suicide.
Let the guilt subside.
a haiku
Field notes
Waiting for ‘Waiting for Godot’ movie to download.
Discussing the purpose of suicide.
Mistaking betel juice stain for blood.
Mistaking a bleeding wound for a watering hole.
Thinking mosquito nets are bulletproof.
Window shopping for a leash for your neck.
Crying when you don’t find one that fits.
Confusing an anchor with a fishing hook.
Going fishing with it
and coming back with a big catch.
