Q & A

Waging a war against the insipid humor that my being derives I plod on through to my next sentence. Ah what shall I write about today? Should I be sarcastic or funny…melodramatic or romantic… pessimistic or optimistic or should I just quit and give in to slumber. Staring at the poster of uncle bob pasted irreverently onto my wall I sing along with him. We are jamming ooh jamming. Wishing to be finding myself jamming along in a concert in Jamaica as the deceased marley stumps his joint out as he proceeds to the next song I move over to my next thought.yaa maan! Almost deciding to spew another array of carefully designated abuses at the cricket players of my country for their indigestible dismal performance at the world cup. I decide against it. Too many people are doing the job. Even my choicest abuses shall be found wanting in comparison. So what next? There’s a pencil lying askew on my table. I love pencils. I’d choose them over pens any day. They smell of fresh pages and pinewood. Sadly they aren’t edible. Wish I had slave monkeys who knew to type. I guess even the cleverest simian would be unable to configure the irritating likes of ms word. What with all the red and green lines. Traffic signaling my vocabulary whilst dampening my idea of my prowess over the same. I wonder why rock died? Don’t people miss the blatant audacity and eccentricity of character anymore? Sadly hip-hop offers no solace. 50 cent reminds me of an athletic hormone induced orangutan. Here lies the grave of 50 cent he sang about thongs and booties and riding on 20’s. Encore! “Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.”- The last Para of Kurt kobain’s suicide note. He killed himself never knowing he was immortal. I suddenly am frightened by the thought that scares me most. The absolute truth that however big the crowd I you and him we’ll always be alone. Privacy resides in thoughts. No voyeur could penetrate that wall. The fact that such thoughts could never be bared frightens me. Bloating the insecurity that defines me. What would you do if today were your last day on the earth? Would I run to her to steal a last kiss? Would I stay home and tell the family that they’d be missed. Would I ask my slave monkeys to type in my epitaph? Would I pray for forgiveness and a seat in heaven? What’d it look like? Heaven? White fluffy clouds, sparking cool mist. White gowned fluttering angels? What if heaven is a state of mind? An overwhelming and everlasting feeling of joy. Then again wouldn’t even joy get boring? Would hell be the heaven for people who wound themselves? Do I ponder too much? Yet never enough!