Daily Journal

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


It's a journal

Submitted: August 23, 2018

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Submitted: August 23, 2018

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I was traveling the whole week. My daughter got admission to a dental college in Ludhiana and I had to take her luggage. I get Goosebumps whenever the flight is taking off. There is also a sense of excitement when the full throttle is put on as the body jerks on the seat. Mid air peeing is a raw sense of delight. I missed 5000 bucks by one digit. Curse my luck. Today was a slow day with nothing much to do. I wanted to read Sade’s novel but left it for another day. I wonder where my writing is leading me to. I don’t know for sure. I got a chance to make love. Need money to pay her and book a hotel room. May be a windfall will come. My body is an earthly hedonist. My soul is an ephemeral egotist. Sex is a tranquil dream. I met many women in dating sites but all of them turned out to be scammers. My literature has reached exhaustion. I have christened it with death. Had a drink at the airport—red label scotch—it cost an exorbitant sum, a thousand bucks. Thank goodness in some airports in India, there are smoker rooms. When I am in it I smoke a lot of cigarettes. Sartre said: a smoker experiences the universe when he or she smokes. I met a sleeveless woman in the smoker room. Felt like giving her a good fuck. I am a literature of nothingness, a floating opera, a garbage pile in streams of consciousness.  I open a can of worm words and write sentences of dust. Chance and luck be my good buddies. See me through the good days ahead. Nirvana, you are a lover consciousness. One has to live in language and also die with it. Time you are can of worms. What is the language of the serpent? All lies and deceit! My halo is my phallus. Awakening is a ritual and playing is ecstasy. From death I am reborn again. I hurt her feelings. She had an accident. I feel sorry for her. She has been my significant other for many years. We met and made love in Kuala Lumpur and Indonesia. Making love to her has been a poem for me. Art, I owe you much gratitude. As the years go by, I want to lead a much easier life. Yes, I regret missed opportunities, goofed up interviews. When will good news come to me? Luck, plant a sunshine in me. Good times are yet to come. Consciousness, you are floating dream. Karma, have I done you any wrong. Time, kiss the wounds of angst. Let the feelings soar like the wings of a phoenix. Memory, I have touched you many times in wounded dreams. Adultery is the sweet passion of life. Let me heal myself by writing literature.


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