Sunday, January 29, 2006

Murdering Memories

I wake up at weekend evenings, like most people in this gargantuan city. During the week, I work like a maniac and insomniac, driving everybody around me crazy. It’s a mad rush for that lethal high of instant fame and money. Then, as the sun sets on Saturday, I slow down.

Mask peels off. Acting comes to a stand still. Broken wings and dreams silhouette against the neon boards. I preen my feathers and begin to hunt down my own solitude. The desire to become human takes over.

Crowded disco. Californification of Bangalore. Shots of tequila burning down a beautiful throat. The jangle of necklace. Nicotine stained soul seeking instant Nirvana. Royal stag toasts to bloody Mary. Adrenaline rush that justifies the price we pay to a world etched with anguish. Yes, the escape lies in love. It lies to Love. After all, love is all black and white. And the night is a riot of colours that blinds the eye. Ravishing red. Mystical magenta. Devilish yellow. Murderous maroon. Frantic fuchsia. Gruesome chrome. Poetic pink… Escape lies in drowning in this chiaroscuro of forgetfulness.

Weekday morning. Stolid sunrise. I wear the mask and sleep-walk to work, like most people in this gargantuan city.
(Written on 16/3/97)


susurrus said...

I like the innate rhythm and the way your writing paints a picture.

I can almost visualize those surreal neonboards against which 'broken wings and dreams silhouette'.

The words stay fresh in the mind. Like wounds.

Perhaps life - as in time lapse photography - is more of a sequence wherein one sundown dissolves into a second. Or should I say one sundowner?

Anonymous said...

there is definitely something more than mere words here... the emotions, the meaningless melancholy of everyday existence, the fear of the invisible haunting, the non-existence of a soulful friend, the inevitable loneliness, the pain of solitude... and yes, the show goes on... the schizho in all of us which points us to the futility of our existence.

the fight for left over food in trash can, the joy of wearing an untorn pant handed over by the dozenth user, of locating a not-so-warm place to shelter from the incessant rains, a rare of rarest smile from a rich kid passing by... our life is much more better than this...its a riot of colors that u have described... does all this keep us happy & peaceful? and yet, we search... the elusive love...somehow, we will still need all the colors even after we find love.... or does love make blacks & whites more colorful....

oh well, i blame u completely for making me feel like a confused idiot... :-)

smokecanopy said...

hahahhahaa! I swear making my reader feel like a confused idiot was never/ will never be in my agenda. :))