Hello. It has been a long time since we've met. How are you? Fine? No? Me neither. But then again, I chose to be so, so you might as well not question about it.
No, i have not been torn up and chewed about. No, i have not faced stormy weathernotes, for a long time now. My words have grown fewer, you see? I cannot write anymore, instead, I draw. I draw letters on my termpaper like some cursive hieroglyphics. I draw dewdrops on flowertops. I draw jetstreaks underwater. Well, I try too.
The fountainhead, is basically a phallic symbol, i have always believed, right from the days of olden lovers. I just never managed to say it aloud to them, with Rand being their goddess of a mean capitalist idealogue. But my phallus is drying up, the stream or all that went inside roaring, rushing into sinews of hatred, all that is dying. I see on newspapers Shundorbon is dying too. Wildlife and wildlings shall perish, they are meant to perhaps.
I feel old, weak. My days in the sun are but gone and lies ahead some terrible temporary existence which may or may not push me to die. But then again dying is easy and easy is not what i wanted. I did? Ki bolchhish? I refuse to accept this allegation.
Fuck you, no i do not want to be like Bukowski. I can't drink that much, neither can I fuck. Bollam na, I feel old and weak by some twenty odd summers. Summers weren't such a pain before, i remember, travelling to school traversing half the city, and then wishing another half to come down to me at night. Maa had jaundice when i was in class 7. Tobe theke ekla travel kori.
I used to imagine bloody fistfights and ketchup blood and me participating in all that back when i did not travel alone. Funnily, i never had courage enough to partake in one when my friends decided they wanted a teenage share of local pride. Easy is what i wanted, eh?
She has been pushing me to write for some time now. but i can only paint. and my brushes are drying me up. Gift me a new colourbox somewhen, won't you?
No, i have not been torn up and chewed about. No, i have not faced stormy weathernotes, for a long time now. My words have grown fewer, you see? I cannot write anymore, instead, I draw. I draw letters on my termpaper like some cursive hieroglyphics. I draw dewdrops on flowertops. I draw jetstreaks underwater. Well, I try too.
The fountainhead, is basically a phallic symbol, i have always believed, right from the days of olden lovers. I just never managed to say it aloud to them, with Rand being their goddess of a mean capitalist idealogue. But my phallus is drying up, the stream or all that went inside roaring, rushing into sinews of hatred, all that is dying. I see on newspapers Shundorbon is dying too. Wildlife and wildlings shall perish, they are meant to perhaps.
I feel old, weak. My days in the sun are but gone and lies ahead some terrible temporary existence which may or may not push me to die. But then again dying is easy and easy is not what i wanted. I did? Ki bolchhish? I refuse to accept this allegation.
Fuck you, no i do not want to be like Bukowski. I can't drink that much, neither can I fuck. Bollam na, I feel old and weak by some twenty odd summers. Summers weren't such a pain before, i remember, travelling to school traversing half the city, and then wishing another half to come down to me at night. Maa had jaundice when i was in class 7. Tobe theke ekla travel kori.
I used to imagine bloody fistfights and ketchup blood and me participating in all that back when i did not travel alone. Funnily, i never had courage enough to partake in one when my friends decided they wanted a teenage share of local pride. Easy is what i wanted, eh?
She has been pushing me to write for some time now. but i can only paint. and my brushes are drying me up. Gift me a new colourbox somewhen, won't you?
