Life

A surge passes over like the huge wave. I become excited, gay and at the same time helpless. I want to write. To write the naked truth and the dreamy tells. The cigarette butts and the dryness of the rum. The sexual urges and masturbations. Tragedy and loneliness of the life. Tired and blisterred body after the longed after treks and travels. The anxiety felt when a book nears the end and the void and the spell I feel after it is finished. The feeling of failure at the end of the day and the feeling of superiority after solving a problem. The tragic events in recent past and the kick I get out of imagining myself as a great cynic, sad, oldy in a lonely house at the fag end of life. The joy of jumping into the racks full of books with names such as Camus, Golding, Theroux, Sartre, Orwell, Salinger, Coetze and many more. The drooling over the memories of the long back read books. The feeling of dejavu. The subtleties of a poem. The long lost friends. Helplessness in finding a partner to share your thoughts. Imagining and rehersing to receive her calls with a shout at her with menacing words cutting through her ear-drum but hurting my own lungs. And then receiving her calls with the same fake tone and just dreaming to shout at her while another day passes without using the rehersed conversation because I never dare to hurt her. And it hurts like nothing else. The daily dilemna to drink or not ending with either of the option. The begining of another day, week, month and year. Rejuvenating books and travels. Killing memories and hostilities of close ones. The never spoken companion just burning herself to death by pushing the smoke into my body. And a desire to answer the never answered question... 'Why do I live?'....