You know what you’re shrieking inside right now?

Pause and mediate.

“Don’t be proud of things I don’t own. Don’t call those mean that I have in my little left pocket, right under my hand, ready to take them out. I’m waiting for the right moment. They say comedy and magic is about timing. I will be the showstopper. Pride is seedy — its like a feather in cap, but either the plume is from a cancerous cockerel or the cap is a sweaty, oiled turban. In every sense, it leaves a memory from a cold, murky time in mouth. But is it pride? No, it’s not (thinking of things that you are master of).”

We have to change the way we talk, the way we cross paths (especially our desire paths), the way we face each other and most importantly, the way we greet each other. The passè won’t do anymore; it’s too infantile for us to adopt. Walking a straight path is nothing but a circumlocution.

I’m not good every day and neither should I be expected to end the beginning of a conversation with a wrong answer. The question should not have been put forth to begin with.

The best way to weigh yourself is to imagine your partner being approached by a person of your character (personality, charm, dignity and all you care about). The amount of jealousy that you will be harbouring is the mark of your flow.

The portrait was done. Neat. Perfect. Convincing. A blot of impatient ink had been keeping herself from dropping down; gave in. It Smuged the very cheekbone that was formed into a mount– something ugly, but honest. He whisked off the blot in a sadist sweep (there was a pleasure in it after all that fitted the mood of self-loathing that had pervaded the whole business). He scrawled with his brush. The stain grew into strandy lines, then a steady streak of tangerine. There was a magic in the ruining of a portrait. He knew he had created modern art. Hastily, he touched here, touched there, connected the dots and the art was complete. With a flush of an unexpected pride, he hid his brushes and shut in the suitcase all his fears.

Dramatis personae:

• Excuse
• Excuse (disguised as Excuse).
• Excuse (among various scenes):
  • Excuse (at the baptism scene)
  • Excuse (in the Excuse‘s teens, on one night)
  • Excuse (at Excuse‘s decision to join crusaders).

• Excuse (marriage)

• Excuse (bed scene, night the first)
• Excuse (Genetic test)

• Excuse (revenge scene)
• Excuse (love-making scene)
• Excuse (before his son, Excuse)
• Excuse (deathbed scene)

I replaced my room’s bulb today, and in the middle of the affair, it felt like a lifeless breath, a breathless gasp went through me. Not that I’d to shell out some bucks, but I could see myself reflected in that business: I’m a bulb after all, replaceable; I could be lying around forgotten. I get fused and I’m throw; with utmost care cradled unto my haven– trash bin. I’m a bulb. At least one will, as I regretfully do, yearn for my warm golden glow when the tiring white light feels like a noise, a whitespace, a blank, a cog (never a column). It didn’t start out as an act of inspiration, and perhaps it isn’t one. A bulb– aged, fused, sooted– replaced!

End of the story.

PS: It was an incandescent lamp that I replaced with those new ones (I don’t want to name it, it’s so gross and unpoetic).

Looking at the tress I feel terrified now; there was a time when they colored the canvas of beauty. Are they not a reminder of myself, raising my hands as if holding onto something in the sky? And when I know that I can only raise them or touch other people for self defense, welcoming, gratulating, snubbing — a survival strategy– one at a time, not simultaneously, I lose the sense of my being. Say I’m a puppet (a very worn out metaphor) that runs drawn by the veins. Say I have surrendered to heaven, without the faintest glory in it, because it comes out of my wasted energy. So God above may well say, “Have you spent all that you had and come to me in your famine?”

Tree am I! How fit! Winter rubs me sore. I shed tears, and bark (not skin anymore). I’m a tree born out of misery not a wasted pip.

It looks like dramatic. But why should it not? After-all, all diaries should be in media res. When we plunge into life’s black-hole that sucks every single atom of faith from us, we come to writing. And what can be more personal that a diary? What can be a private record of inmost feelings and at the same time something that is like a private part, something one feels awkward when open to people?

I started scribbling something today and it became the first page of my diary. But most of that text looks like a mesh now. I hope to upload the same photo soon.

So I’m forced by experience into another defeat. Mostly I try to prove wrong what’s written in the books. Maybe because I have a general grudge against their superiority to me?

Today I found out

that we not only approve arts to base the truthfulness of our judgement on them, but we do it in such a way as to disregard the same need of others for such foundations. That is to say we I often regards others’ tastes as futile without even hazarding to know for a dubious moment the invalidity of our own opinions.

I like TøP. If you’re with me for a day or two you’ll know how much I praise each drum beat in every single song. I try to think if I have liked this song, ever syllable, every punctuation mark must count. I try to argue that, say JB is nothing before it. In a way I have attempted to internalize it. This had become not just a part of me but an Identity.