I'm Dead.

No, I am not. But then, don't people suck at metaphors. For that matter, I don't know if I do. Six and ninety hours it has been since I last smiled. Six and ninety hours since I have been disturbed by fits of  unhappiness, and as many hours since I ate something. I wonder why not-eating goes hand in hand with not being happy. I had a pack of cigarettes though, to calm down my nerves, and some aural exercise with Pink Floyd and Opeth. Contrasting images do I generate, I know, but my life has been tracing pretty much the same course. And while I try to drain out the depression, the Doors do no better than pull me back to their eternal haunting end, the end of everything that has meant or should mean, life for me. Why does the pain need to be exacerbated? I mean, why do I imagine more and more pain for myself, even when I have reasons to be happy? I know, I am not doing any better. I know there is no pain, and nor do I want imagined sympathies.

I can listen to the clamor outside, while I am sitting at my desk and reflecting on possible sadness that is to befall me. They are celebrating the birthday of some lousy bastard, that brat who banged his chick the other day, and now is profusely distributing cases of liquor to celebrate his happiness. I like whiskey, but I am in no mood to have some now. What do I raise the toast to? The two unkind noughts entwined together on my mark-sheet...or the hazy prospect of getting a job...or perhaps even bleaker the possibility of securing for myself a candidature in some management exam? Perhaps it is the unwillingness to go for an internship, or the idea of missing my sister's marriage. I don't know, I am not sure. The cigarette, just like the fading smile on my face, seems to be burning out very fast. Let me smoke my bit...

Yeah, ITC should actually be banned for producing such kickass packs. I am looking forward to switching to cruder forms...Meanwhile, the thought that troubles me at the moment is that I am not getting any help from my neighbor. I don't have any money, my jeans cries for salvation, and I am hanging on to it as the only refuge. Oh! and I just switched to Black. Fuck. Eddie Vedder haunts me to death. Do I have a troubled love life. Ehh....No. What do you expect from me? A screwed up life with nothing to cheer about? I am perhaps the only one to have something to cheer about. Someone told me about appearances that people conjure up, in order to look despondent when they actually have bags full of weed, and the moments of elation that follow...while others simply hanging their tongues out, licking every piece of ass that comes their way, and proclaiming their tryst with happiness, when every night they get fucked by the ideas of reality. What next...of course this is not a bit relieving, but still I am trying to ease myself, with a false hope that this forum saps out the sorrows of my fortune. Weird, right. But does barking at the tree produce any movement? Bark your lungs out, and the tree moves not a whisker. Write loads of accounts when actually they are products of your skewed hindsight. 

Someone knocks at my door, and asks me to join him in their celebrations. I agree to come within moments. I know I am not going. In the meanwhile, I was going to use that stall to drop a deuce, but somebody left it looking like a toilet mummy. Huh...no comfort even in my answers to the nature's call. What the hell !!!