Soul Stripping on the Net

Waiting, stood up, on a hot March afternoon. The sangria slides down easily. A waterfall of wine dowses the tongue, rushing to make good the wasted time, cool down the parched throat. The parched heart too? Now I’m just begging for sympathy. The Wakad v. Warje debate on the only other table seems more interesting than force writing this poem. But such is life, and one has given up to it. Alcohol on hot summer afternoons, now humid due to climate change, aided by damned offers. Thus is life. Thus it is given meaning. Unemployed. Unplanned. Unloved. That’s the story of this old ‘un. Such a story that every unrecognized English song on the pub playlist tugs at your chordae tendineae. Yeah. I learnt bio. Back to this attempt. The random breeze that flows through this unfanned outdoor seating sweetens the sangria. The random flittering butterfly brings a smile. The hospitality assistants staring at this lone dude downing glasses gives them a thing to talk about. At least someone i

  What is living? One would ask a scientist who would describe it as being alive- a negative in the sense of not-dead. A situation where the DNA has no ability to replicate and pass on. Though that may be functional and the truest sense, that is too mundane for any drunken writing. One can actually begin from the emotional sense. Or, when do you feel the truest alive? Or when do you generally enjoy the feeling you are experiencing? That is probably one among many instances that being alive felt ecstatic. What surprises me is the political memory- where people forget the injustices of four years for the sops of the election year. Men forget the pain of any preceding time-period to experience joy. In the sense that the joy is the award for the pain. Why? Why? Why do they think that joy and pain are a couple? What fucked up our collective psyche so much as to accept this insidious ‘pair of opposites’? And who decides the equanimity of magnitude? What is the SI unit? --- Anish woke