An Unbound Rage

That mental cacophony,

That uncompressed yell,

That undulating pain,

The hurt your heart felt,

That sickness in your belly,

Those trembling hands,

Those clenched muscles,

That need to dish out fear,

That sadistic streak,

Those flickering eyes,

Those shallow breaths,

Those pulsating nerves,

That short gulp,

Trigger to a Slur!

 

Seeing is Believing

Hate is a strong word isn’t it? Especially when it comes to things you do or get done in a day. I hate none of what I do. I love my job. I like the people around me who work just like me. We have a fun time. I love my home or whatever of a ‘Home’ we’ve made it into. I love my dog. I love my wife and doing stuff for her.

The only thing that ails my soul and which I think is entirely a waste of my time (some may argue it isn’t) is driving to and fro my office. I feel that hour and a half is the least productive time in my day and the best period I can use for my writing if someone drives my vehicle. It isn’t fruitful to my health for all the smoke and dust that enters me, sticks to me, and makes me look like a villager on either end of the journeys. It doesn’t exercise a single muscle of my body and if anything raises my blood pressure. 

And therefore, I want my robot to be a car that drives itself. I know they are still building on this technology and I may never be able to afford one for myself for it may never turn cheap and I know I’ll end up driving my car for my whole life whenever I own one, I want to nurture this dream. I know a lot of you may argue against me sleeping late and waking up late but because we’re talking solely about my comfort, this will be the pinnacle of the technology I wish to own.

The entire commute must get reduced to small phrases – “Driver, drive to my office” or “Driver, drive to my home”. Something voice activated and startable only using a password and it then does all the work itself while I commute hasslefree inside a clean cabin, undisturbed to write all I want. This way I’ll get a thousand other ideas to write about too by simply looking out of the window.

Some may argue, why not take a bus instead which will be cheaper? I say, I hate being around people. Crowd and bad smells simply tick me off. This when clearly, people are my best source of inspiration for thoughts and writing. Every living body feeds my brains with things and teaches me stuff that no books or internet can.

Seeing is Believing“.

The Thumps from Heaven

Enter.

Look around and find your favorite barber.

“Make the sides neat and don’t touch the top… it’s thin anyway!” Laughter.

Shick Shick Shick… Shick Shick Shick – goes the scissor!

You close your eyes, for you have no clue how the hair will look like once they done. Try thinking of your problems – why why why? Why do my best memories desert me when I’m reminiscing?

Water, GULP!

Shick Shick Shick… Shick Shick Shick – goes the scissor again!

You are now engulfed in a trance full of treble! You let yourself loose, hands and legs draining energy, like through a hole and into the chair that somehow comes alive and starts responding to your shifts in the seat. The foam feels softer and homely.

An hour passes. A mouth homes into your ears and pleads politely asks – “Your hair look amazing. Head Massage Sir?!!”

Your head spins, shuddering back to reality, brain processes the words and thinks of the cash at hand. Satisfied, you just nod affirmatively.

Then come the beats and bass to the treble of the scissors. The persisting trance gathers momentum, running faster, stronger, drawing you into winds of gusto. The head blows, the crashing sound of cool oil on your scalp, the skin let loose, stretched to proportions unknown to you. Pain, pleasure, discomfort, comfort. The only voice you hear is your own when you moan.

Indian_Head_Massage

A vibrating machine fills the last needed colors to an already colorful canvas. Ears, eyes, scalp, neck – it goes everywhere, leaves nothing to imagination and sucks the last remaining demon from your head.

It stops. What? Where? Why? Is this it?

“2 hours have passed sir!”.

Waking up from the slumber and that vicious chair, you see the world in colors unknown. They’re vibrant. So vibrant, they bring you to life. I came back to life.

Only my shoulder, so relieved from the massage, knows how difficult was it to ride back home.

Want a haircut? Come to an Indian salon.