Apocalypse

There are quite a few number of way to be the roulette ball that chooses what happens next in the alarming number of sequences intertwined into random utterings of subtle insults from someone living inside one's head. This is like telling me to forget what I already won't. At least for this lifetime.

All started with green, like most days. No one reads the warnings. I don't think there was one either. This however was meant to be. Like someday we would have gone there. There seems no legitimate reason, but exactly that might be the reason, a paradox written for me, flowing down with the hourglass' fine sand - the finest of all this earth.

I can still argue forever the reasons, build make-belief castles and snow cones and apple pies and hot sunny beaches to forget and be happy. But there is that safe-lock of memories from Inception, where that guy hides his darkness. No matter how hard you try, you come out different, like there is something less every time. You start trusting your ground, the one beneath the water because you felt it to be true, solid. It's not her fault, not really. There was this Moon's diurnal when I think about it. The one everyone usually forgets.

Following were some constant flashes of foam on top of saline and sand, people screaming which was like some Korean movie playing on mute. Yet, there was no tunnel and the whole light and then write a book kind of situation. What really happened was that everyday stuff and people saved another season, and I was just about in the middle. In the end, you feel purer, calmer, better, useful, mature, born. It is like cancelling the apocalypse, and then climbing to the head and shooting right between her eyes with the old sawed-off shotgun. This team did. 

The Watchmen

Hypothetical world has only one kind of job. To watch others. They change shifts, they switch places. One being watched becomes the one who is watching. They make records, logs. Then there are others, like a few hundred thousand billions, who support this enterprise. The ones who cook, the ones who manage and the ones who check. Then there are people. Like us. We are hidden. Living in darkness, under their cloud.

Forgotten, like we never even existed. Shutdown in this slum underneath. A world lit by the corporations that formed during the renaissance. They stand on our heads when people die. They die because of hunger and helplessness. They do not speak now. They do not cry either. They know their probable future and watch other eat the dead. Survival.

I see all this through this small hole I dug. I made it out of that place now! I can watch. I can watch everything. I can now.

Begin.

P.S: Read this in the voice of Tyler Durden.

Conversations Of Time And Bird: Part 1

I waited for hours under the hot sun, finding shadows to stand on, of busy commuters, looking at your windowpane. I stood there without a jacket on the cold winter nights. Seasons moved past. I grew old. I grew a gray beard. People didn't see me. Neither did you. I stood there, for the rest of my life.

Then you came down one day. The very next day. There was no more of the noises I could hear. Or the smells. I grew roots and branches. I grew plumage. But only mine was for food. I was being eaten. I was being sat on. But you didn't see me. I was just a tree.

- Sounds like your wife takes a long time to get ready.

Utopian Wonderland

Feeling like you are the only person in the world, like the rest of this place is made just for you. All that you see is a big setup, with intricate details, like the old huts, the LED tickers, all these commuters and vendors. The feeling of being detached, everything you see isn't what you thought it was. You lose track of reality and time, that something is quite not right. You realize and find everything to be strange, compelling to end this world in some way, like them taking over and burning everything down. That this whole thing was for you alone.

Spirals of white smoke and charred remains that makes you go places, to be there and to be never. You exist because of them, they are your life. You remove one by one, like you remove the bricks from your face, till that fades into thin air. You understand what it is to be wrong, when you thought it couldn't get any better. An explosia, a drum roll and voila. A dragon with no fire and a khaki-trousered-crazy. Where faint was a lifestyle, where you speak through veils and forget about the rest. And you thought this couldn't get any better? Right.

But this was strange enough, happening too fast that you don't even get time to take everything in. Constant, where there was no sense of mind. Or maybe this was what you were supposed to be. You find simple things to be the most fun. You find happiness and that alone. You forget that this world isn't real. You live inside that happiness, this small world, the simple one. Would you make this permanent?