Once again, I hit refresh,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I check the dial tone,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I hope against hope,

A million times, I cry.

Once again, I pray,

A million times, to make it right.

Once again, my heart breaks,

A million little pieces scattered.

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Rampage

The dependence on alcohol develops over time. The dependence on controlled substances develops over time. The dependence on someone develops over time. The dependence on routine develops over time. The dependence on dreams develops over time. Over time, everything develops and deconstructs.

The man was in need of a bottle of bourbon. And some pills. And someone to talk to. He had everyone around him, but he was as alone as he had ever been. The capricious child, the sleeping zombie, the zoo he call home, were not exhibiting the usual inviting vibes tonight. he was in need of port-keying to another dimension. Why was this urge to escape so strong? He could not, He would not, but the fact remains, there was an urge. He was not ashamed of it. He liked escaping, into a world where everything he imagined was possible. And he imagined so little. He asked to be happy, without being unhinged. He asked to see the snow, without wearing a jacket. He wanted to get away from people and places.

Him, his solitude, just stare out the window. Morose and engulfed by the shenanigans of the world, he poured himself a golden elixir. Within minutes of gulping it down, he was dancing with the wolves, yodelling with the werewolves, flying with vampires and flirting with the witches. Aah! That elixir had brought to life all the merry things he so wished for. He no longer was gloomy, if only a tad unsteady. He looked around the same room he was in before and realised that the crystal had found its way to the ground, much to the chagrin of the old lady he lived with. He did not care. He smiled a sinister, satisfied laugh and ran into the snow-field, where, weeks ago, he had dug a hole, about six feet deep, now blanketed with brown twigs and snow. He laughed maniacally at his own grave and jumped in. He stayed there and wondered if he should put a window there, so he could see through. He wondered if the snow tonight would freeze him solid. He laughed at the thought of that and began to pack snow into balls, throwing it in the air and catching it over his dirty brown hair. He did this till he was tired. He did this till a wold cried in the distance. He laughed and howled back. He decided it was time to go, and he started to sit up, climb up, but the stormy snow did not help. He tried, he gave up. He let the snow take over and took cover in the snow. He lay down with perfect contentment, smiling with a heavy heart. He asked the snow to tell the sun to give a light kiss to his wife and son in the morning. He asked the snow to not melt and stay there, even when the sun shone. He thanked the snow and lay there in peace.

Three days passed, the-zombiesque woman that he lived with remembered that someone was missing from their house. The dogs smelled him out. He was smiling, albeit a purple-blue smile, the dirty brown hair, slicked by the snow. The body, as rigid as can be. His eyes were open, much to the bewilderment of the locals. They hadn’t seen many bipolar bears on the other side of the rainbow. A funeral procession was held, much to the dislike of the deceased, where hymns and hyacinths were laid. He chuckled from within his dark coffin, “What are they chanting about? I was a bipolar, and they all though I was crazy.” 

Six Degrees of Separation?

Shorts were made to not wear pants,

Pants were made to hide the legs.

Legs were made to walk with,

Walks were made to emancipate.

Emancipation was made to free.

Free was made to not hide.

Not hiding was made to do good.

Good was made to run the world.

World was made to be a better place,

A better place was made for the innocents.

Innocents were made to be trampled upon.

Trampling was made to prevail upon.

Prevailing was made to conquer all.

Conquering was made to usurp the lands.

The land was made to be covered in snow.

The snow was made to make snowman.

The snowman was made to have fun.

Fun was made to live happily.

Happily in shorts, now that spring is nearing!

 

While listening to Buckley Sr..

Upon reflecting back, I despise myself, for overcommitting. I wish the phone was just a black box, like it used to be. I wish there were no cobwebs of the internet that existed on the phone. I wish the computer was only for computing. I wish calling people was difficult. I wish, I wait, I wonder..

This morning, Matchbox 20’s “If you’re gone”, kept on doing the rounds in my head, like an old record. I quickly got the contraption out that plays music out loud, not just in your head. This included a phone, a Bluetooth connection, a Bluetooth speaker and of course Wi Fi. I wondered what Wi Fi was short for. Hail Google! Wireless Fidelity?! I’m sure I don’t have the right answer. I’m not much for the electronic, electrical or any frim-fram devices or things. So I left it at that. My dyspepsia piqued, when Rob Thomas’ silky enunciations were interrupted numerous times by the hyena-meets-Skrillex ringtones of the phone, that were amplified by the little amplification device. I tried silencing the many demons on the telephone, but in vain. They kept hounding me. I finally gave in and cast a spell to exorcise them, at least till the time Rob Thomas convinced me to come back.

After a few peaceful moments, the electronic postman chimed, bringing mundane tidings. I had won a gargantuan sum of money in an unknown part of the world. And it was confirmed and reconfirmed by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, no less. For a fleeting minute, I dreamt of what I would do with the money. Build a cottage in the snowy woods, hire help to help me live off-grid, buy a snow-mobile, maybe even buy the entirety of the woods, be the protector of the huskies and the penguins. I understand, geographically and virtually, the plans make no sense, but money talks, doesn’t it? I only had to get back to the electronic mail and let them know my details and such. Even to my undoubting mind, this seemed quite peculiar. So I left it at that.

After a while, someone knocked on the door. I had moved on to Tim Buckley by now. Who else could it be, but Amazon?! They had sent me that golden jar of honey I so loved. I put away the jar and safely saved the corrugated box for an impending diorama. What happens with those in the end, I wondered. There must be so many by the end of a school year. Anyway, I remember clearing cobwebs from mine after decades and finally throwing them away muttering all the while, “Stupid, stupid, tremendously stupid!”

I looked at both the Buckleys and realized how similar the father and son looked. How strange to share a face, and music flowing through the veins, but not knowing the person at all? My mind hopelessly wandered to musicians. And painters. The entire multitude of them fought with demons, and the pain brought about beautiful work. Not to mention writers. What demons? I don’t know. They are there. I know some demons. And I fight with them, sometimes using humour, sometimes using a bottle. Speaking of fighting with demons, why is Eminem so angry, all the time? I can understand anger pouring in one album, maybe two, but in the subsequent ones, shouldn’t he resort to anger management? I don’t know much about him or his music, mostly because he always sounds so angry. I like Adele. She first sang about meeting a dude, then breaking up, then meeting again. She progressed at a normal pace. So, getting back to Tim and Jeff, such pretty faces and such lovely voices, am I right?

I realise now that I’m coffee-drunk typing and should probably stop before I’m banned from the computer-world. My neighbour’s dog peed on my radish-patch yesterday. Thought I’d write about that. But oh well. I like the dog anyway. I’m friends with him. I’m friends with a lot of dogs, both dogs and human-dawgs. And now it is time to turn off the music, because as one can tell, it takes me to strange hinterlands and there is no flight back home!

A down-feather sleeping bag

A bucolic home with windows wide

On a gently raising mound,

Green grass by the pond,

And virgin snow on the side.

Dirty stream of barley water,

Smokey herds of the sheep,

Beckoned the clear skies,

And us two, within.

By the warmth of the fire,

By the quiet of the night,

By the wit in your marrow,

You said we were not right.

“Happy Birthday”, sang I,

Curled up in a sleeping bag,

Waiting for the frost to take over,

Zipped and carted with a lag.

Left me on a mountain top,

Didn’t fret about the hop.

A million little pieces fell,

In that snowy little hell.

Someday, when I’m old,

Older than an oak,

I’d like to tell the story,

To my kin and folk.

I promise I will not cry,

As I cried that night.

But promises are seldom kept,

As you proved by the light.