Tuesday, October 13, 2009

diary of a dead poet

“I am an arrogant bastard; I think I am quite intelligent at least more than any other bastard that I have seen. I am very much into drugs, I loathe those practically right dudes and I loathe myself sometime too. I am not in a very good mental condition you know, and every other day I am in a fight with one of many my so called friends. I am in a habit of speaking f words to people, and one day I said those to my mother too. But not so long ago I quit. I quit smoking, I quit drugs and I quit talking too….”


“It is weird sitting in a room, situated at a place where everyone is a stranger to me. I assume u know who strangers are, the ones who would make an assumption about you in just a flicker. I used to hate them, but maybe I was wrong, I am indifferent to them now”.


“How those people live who don’t speak? it is tough explaining without words, but I am liking this. I saw pity for me in their eyes, I ignored it, but still I can’t ignore- old habits die harder.”


“Music, music, music!! It’s in my head, I miss the older days, I miss my mother and also the so called friends. But I know it is nothing but a mere human nature and I hate them, I hate them and I hate them.”


“Finished all of the novels I had today, feels great. To read how someone felt about the world, the perception, the interpretation, the thought, the view, the vision, the fiction and the reality.”


“I saw my neighbor today at 4 am, drunk, singing, he came roaring his bike. I saw my neighbor again today at 2 pm telling the landlady that this won’t happen again, when he knew this will and when she knew he lied. I saw complication, I saw one of those, I saw the world.”


“The great ones are those who think manly and act femininely. And people on the other end are just lost between sexualities.”


“The man who achieved nothing but self satisfaction, the man proved to none but himself, the man who look nothing but ordinary in the first look, is the one you need time to understand.”


“I am happy being a stone, at least throw me in a river.”


“Can’t I be the one who is normal? Can’t I be like the ones who fake stupidity and intelligence? Can’t I be conventional and yet alive?”


“I remember one of my so called friend’s friend who had came to his house for a work which was a “big deal.” I remember how the words he said were so right, how he was telling people what to do, how he was always boasting about his ventures and never forgot to add the line of humility in the end. He was a successful man and also the one with a pragmatic approach. Everybody had long conversations with him, alone and in a group, while he talked for most of the time. Something about him was not right, I never liked him.”


“To think is to progress?”


“Sometime I want to be the one who doesn’t think much, he simply can’t hold the thought. Is he blessed? Who is blessed?”


“How are you doing?”


“The ones filled with negative feelings, the anti-religion ones, ah! They are different, they are unique, they simply can’t figure out a strong reason for their liking towards the morbid. But then there are extremists, having thousands of reasons to prove they are right but not a single one for the other side of the coin. ”


“The good one is good to you.”


“Power, Fame, Money….and I laugh again.”


“Thought of her haunts me, she is an enigma, wore the white cloth, teaches me, preaches me, I never understood, language is cryptic, I am a fool, can I see her again?”


“Fear of the unknown; strange but true; Imagination !! It is a powerful thing.”


“Not always I wrote about my grief,
I knew the pond isn’t pure,
Not always I told you about myself,
I knew you don’t listen to me anymore.”


“The vow ended today, the first word I would speak hence was a great deal for me. Hours passed and I said none. It had rained heavily last night, streets were full with the water and mud, and the speeding rickshaw didn’t bother to notice someone is standing on the roadside, quite near to the rickshaw and moments later the splash of water was right on my shirt and a bit on my face. I was going to swear but I paused, I thought, I smiled and walked. I decided not to speak again ever.”

Sometime again
“Three phases of death
------“a room full of strangers”
----------“new but not strange”
-------“there is no way outta here, when you come in you’re in for good”
You said I’ll be alright. I am sick again.”

And again
“I am a poet!!!”

The poet died after three years, his mother, his father, relatives and also his “so called friends” came to his funeral. They found a note in his pocket which said “Father! I love you a lot.”


  1. Garry, i've been through your work and i must say that it's pleasantly intriguing and off-beat, unlike your dour self:); much better than "Cheerless Death" lol. A good writer, in my opinion, needs to flirt with divergence in his/her thoughts profoundly. But at the same time you shouldn't be bothered about critique 'cause your writing will lose the fizz if it's conditioned to suit the devouring appetite of the critics and not coming from your heart. Carry on....

  2. Beautifully constructed. Truly brings out the abstract in you. Pleasantly intriguing, and yet subtly humble. At two places, I stopped, read again, and smiled. Very graphic and vivid at places. But you can further improve it. But do not tinker with it a lot, lest you will make it lose its essence. Way to go. Cheers.