is it too much to ask for?

“Stop playing this again
and again. I’ve heard enough
about suicides.”

and everyone looked up
from their phones.
she was standing in the middle of the bus.
even from the back
her large green backpack
and a tensed face, stood out
amidst her shout.

“I know what these messages
mean. Stop these damn things.”

and we just laughed
at the back
at her understanding of
bus announcements. even though
none of us knew
what they meant. we were
just smart enough.

“What? Do you think suicide is funny?
You think I’m crazy? I have a
bachelors in Psychology and a Masters.”

and our eyes grew even further
apart as we saw each other’s faces
and we laughed even more.
we said, man she’s on
drugs, or had too much to drink.

“I don’t drink. My last drink
was 9/9/2012. I had a sprite
tonight. They mixed something in it
and, and, they did something and
I got out of there. I don’t drink
alcohol. I don’t. I need help.”

and we didn’t believe
a word she said and carried on
bonding with each other over
a drunk middle aged
woman shouting in the bus
and I met Brian
who just had a couple of drinks
and Jamie and her two friends
were 16 and never drank, and
Lee was high.

“You all think I’m crazy
but I am right. I work with, I know
about suicides, and I studied
psychology and you shouldn’t do this.
Stop these messages please.”

and a couple of stops
later, she got off
and quietly walked away from
the street into the dark, and
disappeared.

It was 11:15 PM.

we laughed a bit more,
and then just sat there
looking away from each
other, in a strange silence.

story time part 2.

if you haven’t read the first part, you’re missing out. click here.

“how’s it going?” i nodded towards her, respecting our daily rituals. i never used her name. mostly because i felt it wasn’t the real one, and the last thing i want to do early morning is piss her off. or piss off any other homeless. they might be homeless, but they ain’t harmless. they’re the kind of strangers your mum warns you about as a kid. even though to your mum, every stranger is a homeless.

“you got a dollar?” she proceeded with her lines in our little routine.

“no cash.”

now this part changed from time to time. i always had a dollar, but the answer depended on what the sun looked like that morning. more often than not, it was a no. that day was the same. i used to feel bad, but now i was immune to the reality around me. the subconscious took care of my daily interactions, leaving my mind alone to stagnate. strangers make you vulnerable, routine makes you lifeless. i’d rather be former, i thought to myself as i struggled to untangle the mystery of my earphones while walking towards the bus stop.

“the millennium collection: best of muddy waters” was next in queue. keith richards spoke very highly of this album. it was extraordinary. but there is always something about great art that hits me on a deeply personal level, whether it is music, paintings, writing, anything. what if i never get this good? will i have wasted my life pursuing something which wasn’t meant to be, or will the satisfaction of at least trying make up for all the lost times spent trying? i still have no answer. i always wish to wake up one day and have answers to my self-doubts but it never happens. tomorrow will be a new day. with a blues solo between my ears, i got off from the bus and walked inside a bookstore.

almost 10,000 books, 1 bookseller, and 2 customers.

expectation is a bitch.

“are you looking for anything particular?” asked the bookseller. his brixton hat and rugged appearance was demanding.

“no sir, just browsing.”

he then switched out the vinyl and sat down behind the timeless register, looking outside. admit or or not, everyone has a routine, even when you don’t.

i skimmed through the poetry section to see the billboard top 20 and tried to figure out the thing i was missing that those writers had. and no, it wasn’t luck. i’ll be the last person to admit that luck had any part in this bigger play of life. i like to call it trials and errors. famously taken from the rich history of experiments in science and mathematics.

“we began with honesty. let us end in it too.”

this was amazon’s bestseller writer, and oddly enough, i was jealous of a fellow countrymen. not because she was so awfully good that i knew i could never write like that, i might be better than she is, but of the connection she had with her readers that made her a bestseller. i love talking shit about these popular artists, when deep inside i know i want to be one. i want people to know who i am and what i do and read what i write and listen what i play and what i say.

the irony of my own thoughts never ceases to amaze me.

i read through couple more pages and couldn’t figure out what i was missing from my work. i had the boldness, the calmness, the clarity, much needed sensitivity, what else could it be? maybe, it is luck. dammit.

like i said, the irony of my own thoughts never ceases to amaze me.

i picked up a dusted copy of the satanic verses and headed towards the register. i always thought if i picked smart, thoughtful books and took them to the register, the cashier will be impressed by my choice and next time i come, he’ll be thinking, “there he is again, the guy with a great taste in literature.” you can guess how many times that has happened. it wasn’t any different this time.

“that’ll be $12.69.” i pulled out some cash and handed it over.

“is it usually this slow here?” human interaction is the key to humanity.

“around this time, yeah. usually we have more than two customers.”
a little laughter that followed killed the silence and made more room for breathing.

“although the business has been slow since everyone started to stop reading books, or buy it from amazon.” he handed me the change with a hint of simmering history in his eyes.

“yeah you’re right. do you own this store?”

“me? no. although i’ve been working here for a long time now. ”

“seems like a chill job.” all i saw him do was switch records, look outside, arrange the new arrivals, and take my money. i wouldn’t mind that.
“did you grow up in the city?”

“oh no. i moved here from canada. been here for 17 years now.”
hey, i know someone else who’s been here for 17 years.

“wow that is a long time. what’s your name?”

“i’m andy.”

story time.

“i’ll be hoenest. just need some weeed”, begged the cardboard rested along a rusted shopping cart. that one cardboard has been through a lot, you can tell. still a bit wet from last night, the soggy words were starting to fade away. just like their creator, the proud owner of that shopping cart. and inside it rested her life. a sleeping bag. two blankets. change of clothes with dirt and dried grass tagging along for the ride. you could just stand next to the shopping cart and smell the last 17 years of her life.

that’s how strong she was, even though she appeared a fragile herb getting torn to pieces by wind and water at first sight. her closed shivering eyes at night embraced the cocaine blues on her face. the scars so deep that even rain had lost its pride seeping deep in them. and who wouldn’t? let god know even he can’t stop a poetic meltdown of a human body.

lana, they used to call her that. i never heard her saying that. maybe she had moved on from her last element of attachment to others. most probably she didn’t remember it. after all, it had been a while. 17 years since someone last called her by her own name. what was it? she would dream about it, and that night was the same.

a lost name in the streets.

and like every morning, her curiosity was infringed by the eagerness of life built on following so-called destiny of the man. the circus was up and running, and the sun shone shyly on the hopeless and the desperate. the world died every night, but the skeleton always got up in the morning and walked. lana was aware of it all. her favorite phrase was, “been there. done that.” she crawled out of her sleeping bag and kept away the blankets. the only thing she had to deal with was the changing nature of, well, nature. almost nothing else affected her. “hey whore, wake your hoe ass up.” shouted a male doppelgänger from across the street. ” who you calling a hoe you ugly ass son of a pathetic bitch? come here i’ll show you who’s a hoe you motherfucker…get the fuck outta here.” she screamed back, making sure her voice was loud and clear to the tenants of the road from 2 blocks and out.

like i said, almost nothing else affected her. who needs caffeine when you can start your day like that.

alone, and fine.

every time i visit a cafe
i find myself a corner
in the center
of all attention.

it’s a hard place to claim.

i dress the chair
with my borrowed jacket
and proceed
to secrete away my bodily fluids.

then i chat up the barista
and get my cup
hoping she’d give me free refill
next time and
all the times after that.
it rarely happens
but i do what a man can do.

i find my old jacket
waiting for me
without complaining
that i didn’t get her a cup.

i like that.

and then it’s church time.
that’s how the life
goes by.

alone, in the center
of all attention.

A friend’s story

I began my study at FCC (CodeCamp) on December 17, 2015. I studied my ass off and 290 days later on October second I was employed as a web developer with Verizon.

I came from the gutter. When I began I had not a penny to my name, no income whatsoever, and I was living at my in-laws’ house, and had no idea where my life would go.

Now I make more money than 90% of Americans. Not to brag, though. I give my money to my misses because she’s never had anything and has always been so deserving. I give my money to my mum because she has never had anything nice. I pay my brother over $1,000 a month to study at FCC so that he too will be able to enjoy life one day.

I’m 100% broke half way through each pay period because I found something I love doing so much that I don’t want for anything anymore, and don’t even care to keep money in my pocket. I just want to code and see to it that those that do yearn for more can have a chance to at it.

So yeah, “me me me me me, look at me”. I did it. And I’m not telling you this so that you idolize me or think “wow, that dude is rich” or “that dude is a great guy.” I tell you this because I want you to know it is possible. I don’t want you to quit because the dream seems unattainable.

I’ve seen it dozens of times. Don’t be a statistic, friend! Be a success.

After I’m done

I want to write,
to create,
raw words, and unorthodox sentences.
weird, but honest to my core
literature.

and to be able to
look myself in the eye
after I’d done it.

after I’m done writing
about myself.

Untitled

continued from last time…

What I find amusing about Texas weather is that it changes a lot. I mean multiple times a day. I vaguely remember one day in August I checked the weather before going out, and it was a promising 85 with sun shining nice and high. An hour later I get out of this meeting, and it’s fucking pouring down. I’m damn sure they put out flash flood warning for that shit. You could have just floated in your boat and sung those rain songs on your way back home in that much water which collected there in last hour and only God knows how. That was my first encounter with this mood of nature. Everyone around me acted like it was normal.

Me? Hell no.

I just stood there with my eyes wide open staring at the huge drops of water coming down from the gray sky thinking about what in the fuck am I going to do now without an umbrella.

Truth be told, it didn’t turn out to be a good day. I’m not a big fan of multiple showers a day. I barely get on with the required one. And that gray sky, it pisses me off. You can’t go out, and that alone restricts me to do stuff. Do stuff. Something. Anything. That’s what I do. All the time. And the rain basically told me, hey you, fuck off. And I’m just sitting there sipping my coffee listening to an intelligently picked mellow music playlist specially curated for rainy days in my room running out of ideas to DO stuff. I never liked being restricted.

I like my freedom. I like my options open most of the times. And I get it that you can’t always have whatever you wish for, but most of the times, I just need the freedom to think and act on. That’s pretty much what I desire from people around me. And from life overall. But rain devoid me of that freedom. Unless you give me a soccer ball and couple of humans. Then I’m the happiest kid in the world.

But this story here is far from being a happy story. It’s not going to be pretty, or colorful, or even have a happy ending after all the bullshit. There’s no doodling with crayons. Yeah, the movies lied to you. As of now, it doesn’t even have an ending. Because shit seems to keep going on and on. Forever and ever. And for as long as the shit keeps going on, there will be a writer bored out of his fucking mind writing about it.

Because somebody gotta entertain, ain’t that true? So be it. I’ll keep writing, and you keep reading.

And I’m Brad Pitt

This story is just a usual story. A regular story about guys and girls. A guy and a girl in particular. They could be anyone. Look around you. To your left. To your right. Now look in the mirror. That’s right. Stare right into those eyes who are staring back at you. They could be you too.

They could be anyone, and no one. And that was what’s so beautiful about them. They could pretend like they were the only two people that God ever intended to create on this planet we call home, but they could also pass each other on an empty street and not even look at the other, even though their bodies knew the other was just a breath away.

They were intense, yet hollow.
They were fire, yet a snow storm.
Burning up to their desires, arctic cold to their souls.

Honestly, they both were full of shit. That’s what I think about them. And about every other guy and girl who think they are the special one.

Sure. Why not?
And I’m Brad Pitt.

 

 

PS: How’s this for the beginning of a Novella people?

Consumer

i don’t want to consume it,
i want to

experience
it.

Stories – Day 5 – Let’s draw an apple

This one is truly reflective and thoughtful. Go ahead, give it some time.

I agree with the part of having the courage to pursue your passion, that too when there are no yardsticks to tell, whether the content you write, is good enough to share or not. And most people don’t even get it. Post a stupid selfie on fb and you will get all the ego boost and approvals to make you feel happy about yourself but when you write stuff, people don’t get it.
And the art classes we have encourage drawing an apple even if you want to draw a swan.
The shallow regular people get more nods.
Being proud of your siblings achievements
Give a great high
Specially when you remember that it was cats and dogs relationship as kids.

 

Facebook: @AakashWrites
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