Free flow, if not even.
Q. Why I write about you and why I call you you even though you’re know where around here and this is so not a conversation.
A. I have no fucking idea.
I have a theory though, you know how I’ve always had theories? Mostly retarded ones but at least I tried.
Well so this is how the theory goes:
See, you’ve always been… calling the shots. So to speak.
OR. OR, I’ve always believed you were. Which would then signify how inattentive I am to even my own life.
Anyhow. Actually you know, I’m pretty sure you’d agree you called the shots. That hug, that kiss, that whole ‘sex’ thing. All your handiwork. Like I might as well have been a blow up doll for how much input I got to give in the how and the where and the why of us intimating each other of each other. But that doesn’t really matter because I’ve sorta always felt that the physics of the chemistry between a biologically dissimilar couple should be governed by the ‘weaker(HAHA!)’ sex.
So that’s okay.
No, see, its not the physics but the umm sociological? Oh fuck it.
Right then, so you’ve like fucked up my head or something.
Nae bae, I was supposed to be saying something different here.
Haan. Why I call you you and blah blah.
I have no fucking idea.
I do know however that there are people in Pakistan who are so heinous that they will use their stables as classrooms to make some extra cash off the already cashless poor folk barely living in slum areas around our metropolitan cities.
I also know that there quite possibly isn’t a single person in
Oh and off late I have discovered that almost all Muslims use Islam as an excuse more often than as a religion and that is quite possibly why the western world is trying to eradicate us. See if we practiced what was preached to us, we’d be pretty cool people. But we don’t. Instead we bend the truth right out of scripture to justify the evil within.
Like I’ve seen hordes of people rushing to the mosque to say their prayers but I have yet to see one person ‘risk’ being late for the mullah’s call to arms by stopping for pedestrians.
Sure, that’s a poor example, but then consider this: People who say their prayers five times a day often end up believing that this practice gives them the right to fuck up lives, cheat, betray whenever they can. Now the problem is that there is no direct mandate from the lord of all things to do the five time thing in the book he wrote, or dictated, or revealed… whatever. But how not to be an asshole has been divined in great detail.
And yet, alas and alack, we chose to be great at rituals and quite incapable at practice.
Why do you suppose this is?
I have no fucking idea.
Okay granted, not all Muslims are like that. Maybe there is one in every gazillion who’s actually a decent human being but even they can’t and often times won’t do jack but preach to who they know isn’t really paying attention.
It’s quite futile, this existing thing.
A big old Ferris wheel going up and down over and over with no real creativity being evinced by anyone in particular at any given time.
So He's all heart broken and miserable over a bad relationship. Is that new?
She had aspirations to be the slutty sort and so forsook love. Wah! How original!
He swore undying devotion to his neighbor because she responded to his crank call. We all have a cousin or a freind's brother or same far flung relative like that.
She found love again and again despite the pleas for justice from all her jilted lovers.
He got a hot, pious, super chef, 20 year old angel of a wife at a hardly-any-wrong-left-undone 40. Are you sure you don't have an uncle like that stashed somewhere in the family skeleton closet?
Irony, my ass. Fact is that there is no retribution in this world. None whatsoever. There’s no such thing as you get what you deserve because you don’t. And sometimes you do and sometimes you get even better than what you deserve even though you don’t pray or go to church once a week or lie prostrate before a cow in a pool of its urine. Sometimes you don’t get jack, sometimes the jack pot. Then you try to figure out why what happened happened.
You’re kid dies of melanoma of the testicles at 4 years old because you didn’t have enough money for his surgery and that is not the fault of a highly inconsiderate and materialistic social set up but your own because you raped your sweeper’s daughter 10 years ago and this is pay back. Then what about the dude who did the same and followed up with a knife through the girl’s heart just so she wouldn’t squeal. He’s still going strong. Singing songs at dance parties, recruiting more victims as he makes like a two bit whore, with a glass perched on top of his gracefully grey hair, saying: “Dekho aaj kanoon naach raha hai” ( look! the law dances tonight). No prizes for guessing this dude’s profession.
There is no retribution, people. Wake up and smell the ass wax.
You can say it’s because we’re selfish, or have become materialistic or because we all have our own set of problems. But those are all excuses. The fact of the matter is, this is who we are. This is the nature of the beast. We are inexorably meant to eventually turn into our very own personal demons and this is why God has hit the big red restart button on the world twice before. Maybe this time around he’ll do it for good and save us and the future versions of us a whole deal of trouble.
Now notice that I have gone off a tangent here and have ended smack in the middle of a highly controversial and highly useless discussion. The metaphysical realties of the universe are even more mysterious than women. And let us not forget that it is a woman that has brought me to this speck of web space time and again.
So, let me wrap up my pandora’s box full of complaints against all things and revert back to the question of why I write about you and why I refer to you as you even though blah blah blah.
Yup, I still have no fucking idea.
My mind is a blender and the milk in this milkshake has turned to turd.
Haan but I was going to propose a theory.
So I think I write because if I didn’t I’d have no space fillers in my life for when I have nothing to do but miss you.
And I miss you because if I didn’t I’d have to believe once and for all that I’m not different than anyone else and I don’t really care about any one else but myself, my success, my reputation, my image, my standing with the lord, with the world, with parents and siblings and neighbors and bosses.
You see missing you is a choice, not a compulsion, unlike life which is vice versa. I’d rather miss you and feel like a total loser who knows he got played because in believing that I also have to believe that for a sufficiently long period of time I was allowed to love like the books and the movies and the dreams that poets weave. And somehow, knowing that I miss you now because I want to as opposed to taking a dump when I have to gives me this surreal sense of purpose that has absolutely no real merit but it is my choice. MINE. You would want otherwise, I know. You practice otherwise, everyone I know wants me to stop this shit. It’s the mothafucking remix, huh Moody?. This isn’t what I’m supposed to do. But the teenage rebel in me is still breathing and he won’t let me succumb in this matter like I have had to in pretty much everything else.
This whole thing, this blog, this love beyond reason crap, this is me being who I want to be. Sure, it’s a stupid thing to want, but it’s better than wanting to be a slut. Or powerful. Or rich. This way I get to stick to my warped sense of morality which means that by giving up materialistic ambition I can effectively avoid being corrupt or ruthless or evil.
This is my way of saying FUCK THE SYSTEM! This is my counterstrike.
This is my choice.
Phir zeher hai ya aab-e-hayat
Mera tow hai.
It’s comforting to know that fools like me have lived and died already. There is no retribution for the sinners and no benediction for the saints, what difference could anything possibly make?
As to why I refer to you as you even when this is so obviously not a conversation?
It could be because I’m a crazy person.
Or because I think you is better than she or her.
Or maybe because after I’m dead you’ll come here one day and read all these words and instead of going geez what a loser you’ll go and kill yourself.
Maybe because it’s meant to be. Maybe because I’m supposed to.
I don’t really know, but you is not a choice. You is a compulsion.
For whatever it’s worth, I prefer you to everything else, completely and without exception.
NB: FLICK!!! Whts the rest of that freaking Sher?. I blame you for this post :/