from a winner to a blogger

"He slept under the moon,
he basked under the sun.
He lived a life of going to do,
and died with nothing done."
And I have feared these words like evil spirits for as long as I can take my mind back. Everyday, I face a 'going-to-do', the days almost invariably wither with nothing done. Time dipped deep in thankless jobs of the day (they call it 'Tempo' down here). I am still of a victim of the strong currents that flow in this air, air beautifuly laced with arsenic. It is now hard( almost impossible?) for me to now re-realise that this is the soil where I so badly wanted to land upon.I have taken to blogging, my newly found alternative to verbal cribbing and nagging. I don't know how long will this sustain, as I have run out of writer's tapping (ink is now outdated, writers are now tappers). Another bane of the arsenic. I have failed to understand and state what is that assigned task that the almighty sent me with. Is it to just sit back and listen to other's (vague) victories? Or cram lessons from beaming demure dolls about stories of one particular "GOD" played what stunt to get what, while I sit clicking my mouse to demolish monsters?
I read confused. Believe me I am. I am also a self made persecutee of my own silence. This silence is another arsenic.
Last night, when it was dark and there was no one to torch the surroundings,I saw a thousand more stars in my sky than on a night before. And thence, in Floyd-al philosophy,
"I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life "
Now is the time for some vodka and grass. Muster up the all showy courage of a man high on narcs and make it up there.
By the way, don't you feel special to be ordinary?

Under baptism

In the begining, I was a belief. Held strong in young hearts and in a serrated manner, not-so-young hearts as well. I became a
myth, a vapourised myth. Customarily I witness this transfiguration take place all around, with all my comrades (no red flag
here). Now I have risen up, what remains of my mortal being is just a molecule, I am not even a vapour anymore.I wander about, trying to locate my old allies. They are all molecules now, identical, identityless. In the moments that have
passed by taking me along from a belief to a molecule, I have learnt to forget my origin. I am still a molecule, vulnerable to
furthar disintegration. In some corner of this cornerless world is brewing a science to disintegrate me further.Tremors, wooble, shake.Here I stand (still a molecule), a gargantuan edifice prides high behind me. The blue yonder is curtained by luxuriant trees
stretching wide about. The path ahead miragiously still looks straight. There is no conclusion to this street, it comes a full
circle. But still remain a molecule, a delusioned molecule. I still harbour an impression of being a belief. I still imagine that I am
yet to disintegrate, and yet die a thousands deaths everyday.I am still oblivious of my anonimity.