Too much wine

A gulp of the last wine drop from the wine bottle. I began to type. Cold was the night and turgid my tummy. Each note of the jazz wafting and bumping on my drums. Do this do that and life goes on. My fingers obey the grim master and hit the right keys. Ice thawing in the heat, I know not where the fire rages. Type and type for what joy and what glory? Everything rests on the next few seconds which have already become the present passing seconds. 

Heave, push and push. Frayed ropes and bloodied torso, and a single beating heart. Life tickling death and death flicking the middle finger. In the depth of the night, I type to live a few seconds more to try and relive the peace of mind I had when my loved ones were once with me. Why I write and why I write of gloom. I write sad to be happy reminding myself that everything is in the mind. A sad to a happy. A death to a life. I choose to live by simply writing. A slender centipede just slithered across my window and if I am not mistaken, it entered my room. And the worst part is I have to sit here in the dark, with no lights in the room, and continue writing.  

Fair days of glory are far dreams I am chasing. This night, just like the last is but another obstacle that is the only way. And just like that, what was in my way becomes my way. I expect no applause from me or from anybody else for I am still unproven. The odds in the favor of the doers is life’s way of making way for people who know what they are doing. But I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t even know what I am writing. The obstacles in my way are huge, preposterous and sneery. And I feel something crawling up my hairy thigh.

In the depth of the night, I pound the keys to pound my ego. I try to, with little success each passing day, plum the depths of what makes me, me. Onion layers after onion repeating layers, nothing seems to get me results, get me answers for ways to improve. Tears in my eyes solely because of all the onion cutting, my face shows you no emotions. Churning inside me is a well of messy waves which have the intention of turning suddenly organized into a tsunami. 

I am writing this here, this night, that my words will one day cause tsunamis. Until then I will bear the shame of being too boastful and being full of contempt. The notes of the jazz streaming by, to an end. My eyes have finally started to drowse. Too much wine, and too much mischief, makes me want to write more. I picture myself on a Yamaha RX100 (with the original Made In Japan 100cc engine), whipping through the streets freely. Unfortunate, I cannot write with eyes closed. Good night. 

In dream:

The Yamaha RX starts and chatters into life with loud pattering shrills. 

Middle and other old aged men and women on the street look annoyed and try to look away. 

He revs it once, and then twice and thrice in quick succession.

‘Ugh’ Says one aunty. 

‘-_-’ Says He. 

He twists the throttle and wheelies down the street. 

‘Hey! You Rascal! Stop!’ Says one random Indian Traffic Cop. 

RX skids to a halt an inch away from the random Indian Traffic Cop’s groin. 

‘Sorry saar’ says He. 

I woke up and it was still dark. There was definitely something on my face. It was crawling with a hundred tiny legs and it was, I think, a slender centipede. This night, too much wine, too much mischief and too much legs.