It doesn't make you feel good to know that the moron was introduced by that hysterical iffy TV host as one of the most prolific artists. You came home wishing you hadn't turned your attention to that LG idiot box. Anyway you had done it and that unwanted memory was imprinted in your mind. But the trouble was you began to take it too seriously; why in such a big world of too many that man was rated as the smartest "arse." No. You misheard, he was considered as the most "popular."
The person in you said you could do smarter things than those " arses." You had it in your mind when you were on the train. Those unruly commuters scrambling and thus sending you all over the compartment couldn't even penetrate your wanting to do something really smart. Just to draw inspiration you recalled some of the writers whom you always admired, when their names appeared in your mind you began employing your mental faculty to assess their works; theirs were done in different times, about different places. But yours couldn't be like theirs.
This made you think you were unique and if laboured you could be one of those " inimitables." Soon this confident person was waxed in criticism and that swept aside the writers you had admired. Now you didn't want to pick up a book; you would focus on what you should be writing. The mind had steeled and all that you needed to do was to sit at your slightly wobbly desk to type on the dusty keyboard.
While thinking this you said to yourself, " oh..I said stupid things, did stupid things, now I won't write stupid paragraphs." In fact, you hadn't written stupid stuff, even if you had you were always quick in scrapping them.
When the door was unlocked and the panel pushed open you saw the oblong-shaped yellowish sunbeam over the scarlet rug. Inside the room everything seemed just perfect; it wasn't hot anymore and outside it was breezy.
Yes. Yes. It should be after a cold shower, a cup of steaming black coffee beside your computer and then you would just go on. You decided to ignore those books stacked up against the walls and some sitting atop your iron wardrobe. After the shower you had the black mug in your hand and walked about the room. Surprisingly you began to wonder what you should write ,and startled by the fact that nothing beautiful hadn't crossed your mind.
What had happened? Your mind hadn't been trained for months. What used to be a habit now had had turned something quite remote. In this state you could only feel exasperation travelling through your body and you began to writhe. What was the point of hurrying home and then going through the process of a shower and some black steaming coffee? Were you lying to yourself that you could and you would? When did this happen?
To you it seemed like that the productive person in your had departed and you were left all alone so weak and vulnerable. Without it it wouldn't make any sense and you would be just like any other in the crowds. Now what? Drown the sorrow, the sorrow of of an incomplete person? Why not? It could be anything, the tasteless cheap Australian beer, and then with some Scotch.
Beer bottles and now the glass was filled up half with Scotch and with the ice cubes thrown in it had come up till the brim. Now the room wasn't cool anymore; the curtains were not that colourful. It was now a despicable place since it was where you had realised your own rotting self. Below the world was kept alive by cacophony. You wanted to be far away from it; how could you let others see this! Utterly impossible!
On the roof you sat sipping the half empty Scotch bottle with your back against the parapet. It was only when the cool breeze became stronger you realised you should go down and do something, atleast. Read. The whole body had turned a bag containing sloshing liquid toxic, mind as wobbly as your desk. You could only slump there with the breeze blowing at your face and wait for the next day.
Tomorrow, yes tomorrow again you should make another attempt.
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