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Yes. I am sleepy. Sleepy I should be. I wish to be in bed right now. Why am I not dreaming now? Listening to the saddest song right now, I feel sad. I would like to weep but can’t, though sometimes my heart drops a tear or two. I feel heavy. As a kid, I always wanted a dramatic life you see. Drinks, girls, some dancing, people swinging at each other, trying out a brothel and getting kicked out broke, failing high school, destroying my life in my style, my way, my fashion. Tangled up in blue. You see I have made a mistake. However beautiful, it’s killing me softly. I have somehow injected this sadness way down in my heart. It’s romantic now. When I close my eyes, I feel the breath getting heavier, my beat drops in the stomach. Makes me sick. Sometimes, I get panic attacks too. I ignore them thinking someone is missing me badly. Bless my delusional heart. Yours too.

I got a dream. I see her on a cold night. It’s dark. More than usual. The one just before dawn but more black. I see a plain road, and there she is standing in front of me. She looks clueless. Beautiful she is. Hopeless this time. Not crazy. She was going to take me in her arms but before she could move an inch, I started walking towards her and walked past behind her. I took out a Marlboro red, lit it up from a matchstick, inhaled that thick smoke, exhaled with a deep sigh, and thought about her. She, I swear on all the pussies of the world, has beautiful eyes. I love how she breathes. God. It’s an abyss, my head. I feel tired. Disappointed. This is so fucked up.

I reflect on what I have around. Bukowski makes me sad, a few soundtracks too, my lady’s arms around me. I want to rest my stupid heavy head in her lap. I want to keep my hands on her soft, big, and round bosom. Very firm. I’d like to grab her hand and run away. Into the wild. You know, a relationship between a woman and a man is just made for love. Nothing else. Christ, I want to love her. I want to hear her laugh. Her laugh is funny and captivating. Usually, I would squeeze the thighs but I’d like to the cheeks this time. Give her a long kiss. I would like to climb her every night and put it inside, give her my purple throbbing. I’d like to kiss her forehead now and then. She makes me proud. I want to look her in the eye and feel completely vulnerable, naked, understood, at peace, at home.
I want her to look at me with love. Her eyes should cry my name. She sees only me and our world. She should turn cold when deprived of my touch. Her skin shines and glows when I touch her. Her legs spread, just for me. She gets wet only for my dick.
[Sighs…]

I don’t know what to do with all this love and sadness. No, no. I tried. I tried that too. I want to be on the way with this heart. Leave her. Yes, Of course. She can’t do all this. These feelings must exist only in the head. Such emotions are dangerous outside. Of course, I’d like it outside, but I am helpless. Stuck. Too broken. I am high, I want to collect all this and run. Remember, the music mustn’t stop. It can’t. It’s in tune. If the music stops, so will the writing and our attempt to swallow this sadness, this rage, this anger, will fail. We must not fail. For we have failed throughout. As parents, as a friend, a lover, a giver, a writer.

Don’t lie to us. For not everyone wants to bleed like me.

[Deep Breaths]

Call her. Take her in your arms and never let go. You do it. It is necessary my friend.

After all this, one day you’ll find yourself. Embrace that new you. Have a good drink with him. For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught.

P.S: This sadness within me craves intimacy. I don’t think girls would understand me right now. They are too busy getting fucked by imbeciles. Shallow men. I am at least 50 years ahead. I’d settle for prostitutes for now. They don’t demand much, not talk. I’d like to fuck them brutally and rip their pussy apart. And drive home to the cats. I don’t feel like sharing anymore. Enough for one night.

Goodbye.
Regards,

By: Rocket Man

Thodi si meethi hai

Zara si mirchi hai

Sau gram Zindagi

Sambhal ke kharchi hai

Ma would listen to this song on the radio with an uncanny affection. Something about it would always make me uncomfortable, but most of all, the way she related to it, and the way she hummed it, with joy. As if she was dedicating it to herself. I could never understand how something so clearly miserable could bring a smile to someone’s face, how someone could even celebrate such melancholia. I could see, somehow, how she saw herself in it, and it made me restless.

Khari hai, khoti hai

Rone ko Chhoti hai

The thing about pain, or turmoil is, if you prolong it enough, it turns to poignance. It’s a satire, a delicate piece of art, a paradox; like Wabi-Sabi China, with its gilded crevices. It’s a battle wound, which never heals, it’s a medal of honor, for surviving and continuing to survive yet. Most of all, it’s an ache that never leaves your side. So you smile back, take it in your arms, and make it a part of you. You celebrate it.

The piano solo, the gentle hum, everything reeks of sorrow, of a misery that has carried on for far too long to be a stranger. It’s a cry, a wail, one that accepts and embraces the tribulation that life is: it’s a cup of coffee simmered a bit too long, a bit too bitter to digest. It never reduces the grand anguish that it brings to plaster it in synthetic pastels of joy and spirit. It accepts the agony. But it doesn’t lament it. It gives the pain a giant hug, it chuckles to it, it celebrates it. Because that’s what makes life so precious to grieve over, to spend frugally.

Asli hai, jhoothi hai

Khaalis hai, Farzi hai

Whenever the going gets too tough, for a little too long, the melody comes back to me, like the ghost of a smile through tears. To remind me of the curious contradiction of polar opposites that life is…Of strife that’s eternal, of a journey still too valuable, of tears meant to cherish…Of the fact that life goes on, and you learn to live with what has pained you. And now, I understand ma a little better.

By: Aadya Sharma  

So, While fucking, she took one of her ex’s name. I am mad now. How could she? A whore she is. Anyway, I don’t feel the same while fucking her. I just fuck her for the sake of it. I guess after the episode, I just don’t feel the same.

Anyway, Today was a good day. I am a bit drunk now. Vodka was the poison today. She, my sister and me, went for a drink at my friend’s place and we had fun. Got a bit drunk, smoked some cigarettes. Swayed a bit, talked about fathers, condoms and mountains. Good times roll by.

Oops, she is taking over the blog today like she took the reign of my heart. 

We have talked incessantly about the majestic, snow capped mountains for the whole year now. They talk about inductive motivation, I say we should talk about the ideas which are the most potent to even make or break a human mind, completely changing the algorithm of thinking mechanism.

Man! I have never seen one, only heard stories. There is something so mystical about them. The possibilities of going uphill and all restless, without catching a breath just to feel nothing and everything at all. And the nights, so lonely yet fulfilling, you feel the breeze as if that’s the only melody that’s gonna strung your eardrum and then your sighing heart, on the contrary the silence good enough to let you hear your own limbs, blood flowing to the vessels, and the human mind fully functioning enough to make up a story in the fraction of milliseconds of time. 

Oh and the mornings,

Can’t recall his stories about them but wait will come with it soon once I see one in real life with my naked eye, just sufficient to strip my mind.

 By: Rocket Man

They ask me ‘Oh so you’re this writer huh? What do you write about? Are you a travel blogger?’

Well, Everybody who writes is a writer. That’s what I think. Secondly, I am no traveller, I am an explorer. A guy who doesn’t want to die curious. Today is my first attempt to write a travel blog.
Travelling is very subjective to people. Some like to go to the mountains for a trip, others for adventure sports, a few go for spiritual awakening, some go for just a break from their daily lives, and some just dream of going.
Recently I went to Pushkar for 15 days to volunteer at a hostel. I wanted to know what is going on in the hospitality industry. Before leaving I did what most of you would do, go to the internet and Google all about it. I saw a lot of links to a lot of amazing blogs and tried to gather information. All I could get was- 10 best cafés in Pushkar, Things to do in 24 hours, Must visit these places, Best pizza in the town is right here, Treks, Temples, and stuff like that. What I questioned is this-

What do you feel when you sit on a ghat or in front of a mountain at sunrise?

I want a blog or something on that. I want people to share real moments from their travel experiences. Not the stuff which I can google. Well, That’s what this website is and I am gonna stick to the essence of it.

So, it’s Day 4 in Pushkar, I got done with my dinner and I had to write a blog so I took a break at 10 PM for an hour. Met a friend accidentally, wanted to be alone but we started walking to this place looking for ice cream but couldn’t find it so went on to Raju restaurant for some sprite and chose to get high. Did that and went to sit on one of the ghats to chill. Sat on the last stair near water, folded the jeans, and sat back. The body was relaxed. There was no pressure, had completely forgotten about the blog and started thinking about mountains. I love mountains. I don’t want to climb every one of them, maybe once go for a trek or something but just looking at them just makes my heart very calm. It’s really a happy feeling. You look at one peak and right behind it there’s a taller one and it goes on. It’s something to chase for. I kept thinking about it. My friend had left after 20 minutes because he wanted to puke. I was sitting there for another hour but the lights went out at 1 and I got scared but still did not panic. It was a full moon that day and it was bright enough to still fall back to the dram in my head. It does come true, the dreams. Put your desires in your subconscious mind and let the magic happen. If you truly want it, dream about it. Dream that it’s happening to you and there you go, 50% of your work is done.
Anyway, I’ll tell you more about it later.

Goodbye.

P.S: I realized that I like getting high only when I see the moon. Makes me calm.

By: Rocket Man

Forgive me, today I come bearing bad news. 

I would request you to pray for my friend Aarushi Sharma, who passed away on April 8th, 2021, on a beautiful yet sorrowful morning. There is something stuck in my head. We were not great friends. We used to work together. She quit the job a year back and joined a BPO. She was pursuing Journalism to fulfill her dad’s dream as he passed away when she was a toddler. Since then she was living with her mom, stepdad, and two pain-in-the-ass stepbrothers. She was a good colleague and we shared a good bond. A heavy drinker she was. She made me have enough vodka in one night for a complete year. Some of you don’t know her, let me give a snippet of what was she like.

I wouldn’t call her the prettiest but she had those big eyes the kind of eyes your mom shows you when you break a piece of crockery. Long eyelashes made those eyes look fierce and beautiful. The color was black, of the eyes. The nose was a bit fat and the lips were in good shape but the chin interfered. She has good hair but she failed to maintain them and ended up looking like frizzy spaghetti. Not so long neck but a bit hairy, just on the neck. A very good bosom. Perfect rounded ones. She was in a good shape. 5’5. I liked her hands a lot. Once she even allowed me to draw a shitty painting on her palm. She had those long fingers with long nails that could scratch the fuck out of you like a cat. Not a perfume user, deodorant. Very fruity.

I do not have many encounters with her and few to mention but one thing I’d like to point out here which is very important is, is whenever she was asked to stand up for her friends, she did. At least for me, every time. She saved my ass a couple of times too. A good human being.

She passed away at 3:45 AM, I wish she has seen the sun that morning.

May her soul rest in peace and she has much fun there as she had got there. Chico, we love you. Take care.

Let us take another minute to give more power, strength, courage, and love to her mother. People who leave don’t have any problem or pain, people who are left behind have to live with it. God bless her.

It’s something unpredictable but in the end, it’s right, I hope you had the time of your life”).

I will take your leave now.
Thanks for being here.

Regards,
By: Rocket Man

So, I went to this place today for an iced tea with my kitsch and ended up being a part of an artist meet up. It was good. Very artistic. I guess. Writers, poets, painters, sketch artists, illustrators, organisers and much more. It made me think who is an artist? I think they should dutch some money, go to a cheap 90s Bar, order a good, fine whisky and then talk. Met this guy who wishes to go to Varanasi to know about death. Strange. He should also drink up. As they say, don’t die curious, you should not die sober also.

I think everybody is an artist, a painter with their own canvases, a writer with their own paper in their hand with miseries and vulnerabilities to spit on it, a sketch artist to draw the character they have been carrying in their heads since 1999.
For me, I just drink, listen to music, think about women and free fallin’.

I want an open field. I want to go all the way in. Put every inch on the verge. For I know, when I will do that, magic will happen.

Anyway, let’s talk about something else.

How do you cross the boundaries of the world, break the shackles of this society to love someone? Think about it. Get me an answer.

Now I’d like to take your leave. I know it’s too early, haven’t given you my style of anecdote but the woman says, she’d like to take me home, country roads, unzip my pants, make me sit on a wooden chair, tease me with her boobs and suck my dick. I pissed her off today. I threw some water on her face and now she wants to spit on my weiner. God bless me. God bless my balls.

Regards,

By: Rocket Man

I loved drama. A life full of it is all I wanted. 22, I am now. My head is getting stupid and darker with each passing day. I am drowning in the pool of my own emotions which were supposed to be my defense mechanism. So, is there any way to go back to normal or should I keep falling?

While you and I figure out a solution for this, let’s dive into the current mood. Again, I miss her.
I told you, I don’t like sudden changes in my day or my head. I am slow guys. I take time to adjust and I like to keep things at my own pace. Hurry is only for an orange bar in may and undressing her. Well, I don’t intend to make this blog all about her apart from this song which definitely is for her because gosh, I miss her.

So, moving on, I have found the best way to have your whisky. You gotta pour your drink by tilting the glass so to get whisky legs. Once you get that, put an ice ball and fill the glass. 60ml friends, no more no less.  My old man says – ‘remember kid, it’s the first drink that matters. Rest is just water. You make the first drink and drink it, from that point onwards it’s the whisky taking you to the long island for that face which you have been seeing in your dreams as the epitome of beauty and hoping that the touch of that woman will be the salvation of your soul’.

Not exactly, I made a little but up. But did you see something? I have it all in my head. Sometimes, I love my world B (my other world in my head), she is still there. Elton John is playing in the background with some cold water. Haven’t taken a shower but life’s good.

Music is keeping me alive. I get dreams where I am on a ventilator and on the verge of death and someone just put my headphones on and played music and I am back. Sounds stupid but it’s a very intense dream.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got today. Not much, but definitely less. If only you know.

Until next time, take a breather.
Regards,

By: Rocket Man

Times new roman, size 12, line spacing 1.5.
Today I come up with a conversation with which I am struggling for quite some time. Extremities.
Should I? Talk about it? Fuck it. Who cares.
Let’s begin with the same old statement. She is stupid. 

She came down to surprise me, man. What could a guy like me expect? I loved it. She was so nice to me and I started questioning my ability to be with such a woman. Today, she tells me that she did not come home because I said so.

 @@$^(%&$^*%#

Exactly! What the fuck right???

At one moment you are travelling 180kms in a local bus with no plans to meet him and the other you did not go and fuck him because he said so? Wow. 

 It made me question a lot of things but above all my ex came to my head. She used to hate this thing when I did the same. She believed that what a person can’t do his/her entire life should not even start that thing because it might hurt when you won’t be able to do it. I feel it.

Moral of this rant? – Set a floor and a ceiling for yourself! Yes, do whatever the fuck you want but don’t disappoint people in the journey. Care, a bit.

#Pieceofadvice: I tend to speak a lot about stuff and preach. They say, don’t. They are stupid. A piece of advice is information you give to yourself in the past. Probably to your stupid self. I justify my self-loathing, 

Let’s talk a bit about love and sex? God, I am horny.

Take some opium and fuck her from the back. Insert your finger in her pussy and kiss her neck. Bite her bosom and put your dick in her mouth and then my friend, listen to this song!

Rage you fucker. Forget the past. You wanna love her, do it. I’ll show you! 

Regards,
By: Rocket Man

Since you’re a 90s kid. There was this summer which came and passed and of course, your innocence went outside the window along with your eardrums and naïvity.
Look outside get a whiff on the road you live on. Probably smells of ridiculous kids doing the things they should be doing. And that’s precisely what disgusts me. Every Saturday I’d somehow manage to either grab a cigarette or a glass of whiskey and sit and ponder over what’s become of this generation. I’m well aware of how this makes me look like a 70s black and white character. Like you know? A man who’s basically modern by dictated paradigms yet stuck in the trenches of life back when “it was all simple”. Guys are dictated by the sole fact that sex is a commodity they must chase down and short their life as collateral. Women on the other hand have a sea of chumps to navigate in. One might just say. Uncharted waters they are. But where have all the romantics seemed to fuck off? What happened to all the clever people and quick whizzy snappy suburban motherfuckers? How come mediocrity the norm these days?
It’s a study for the ages man. The fact that we went from translating Coldplay’s song to French line by line because French is the language of love to “Bro, story pe react karde conversation chalu ho jayegi”, is just a huge blasphemy. Sons don’t fear their fathers and anarchy is a myth.
It’s like a Hitchcock movie but in reverse.
But to be perfectly honest with you.
Hope is a good thing.
Maybe the best of things.
Sure the romantics have been shot dead in their own Tiananmen square but I’ll be drinking, killing, chilling and waiting for the stories all over again.

By: Fox Mulder   

I watched the classic quintessential timeless Christopher Nolan’s masterpiece “The Dark Knight” in the year 2009 one year after the release because in those days who knew the fuck was formulaic narrative. We all have those moments in a movie, don’t we? Where it’s literally us being portrayed on the big screen in some weird melancholic spinoff or some future debacle about to unravel because of the 1000 bucks you stole from your dad’s wallet before the movie to impress your lady friend.

My moment came when the self-righteous, white-collar face of Gotham, Harvey Dent said the words that’ll go down warm in the heart of every kid who picked up a Batman comic: You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Fast forward to 2021 it fucks with my brain how a tweaked quote fits in cahoots with my life:  “Every villain is a hero of his own story” ~Carter Burke.

But because it’s 2021 and somehow mediocrity has made its way into the young naive stupid scared shitless and braless and shirtless minds of ours. Since you’re here I’m hoping there’s a glass of whiskey in your hand and you’re not stone-cold drunk. I perhaps wish you’re smelling the liquor and I hope you’re lost in the seductive aroma of it.

I wish I can stop quoting these assholes and get back on the Bukowski train.

By: Fox Mulder