Wish sound waves translated into garlands of flowers

“Maybe, people get humbled after your death. If not humbled, perhaps relieved that you’re gone. For good or for bad. Happy about erasure of your existence or happy about the very erasure of your immensely negative thoughts about yourself,” I wrote.

I think, all I really wanna do is jus–

“There’s A-84, A-202 and A-4 which go to South of the city but none of them seem to be fucking around,” said the uncle who was sitting beside me.

I replied, “Yeah, because of Sunday I guess? Fewer buses run on Sunday. And maybe, also all the families which are out on the streets to shop.”

He nodded. I’m damn sure that he was annoyed by the way I said it. He was probably a person in his late 50s, who must’ve traveled in Mumbai buses for as long as I’ve lived. But, what can I do when he says lame things like that. I mean, I cannot be kind from the first conversation itself. I talk with the true nature of myself in the first conversation and then decide if I have to be kind or just carry on with how I am. I somehow hate people who act kind by default. I mean, kindness is something you should learn with time.

I just sat there wondering about this song a girl sang. It’s just brilliant the way she plays around with tones at 2:03. And, that’s the moment I feel like my heart lost one precious beat.

It’s absurd to think I’m not embracing missing heartbeats. I’d rather stay put and miss a minute’s worth of heartbeats, but it’s just different when you hear someone so good as her.

It’s just so sunny over here. And, for fuck’s sake, I can’t write properly.

I thought, I’m going to strip everything off and start with something new. I changed the page and wrote a new title, “Pool of Love.”

As soon as I did that, I noticed everyone running to the bus stop beside the one I was sitting on.

And I muttered, “Urgh, why the hell do I sit on the wrong bus stop every time?”

I ran behind the bus and, for the mighty lord, I was able to climb in. And the moment I entered, I felt so much relief, because of the blasting ACs inside the bus. I don’t think anyone in Mumbai compromises on AC. I see the AC machines outside apartments in big buildings, and them being hung outside slums as well. Maybe all of that heat getting vented outside the AC is probably adding to the increasing heat of Mumbai? Who knows.

I got a ticket, tapped on the conductor’s verification device. I had changed my place twice because of how inappropriate the previous seats felt. But I got myself a seat at the back, behind a woman.

I was wondering if it was my mother. But then I realized, how could she come to Mumbai and not try to contact me. I just keep wondering about my mother sometimes. Whether she’d be able to navigate Mumbai like I’m doing, or will she just get lost somewhere and call me? I’m kind of uncertain. Maybe I should get her here and just leave her alone somewhere in a crowded area. It’s weird.

She kept staring outside, and it reminded me how beautiful the whole Santacruz (W) streets are. Canopy-styled trees, big shops, and a traffic signal at almost every 700m. To be very honest, I like traffic a lot. It just delays me more, and I get to enjoy a few more minutes of her singing. It’s rare, because most of the time I’m singing along to songs like “You Know You’re Right,” “Suck Me Dry,” or “Plush” by Stone Temple Pilots. And I get lost in the stream of thoughts about the singers — the way they got high on drugs at a young age and also made songs that are now embraced by youngsters like myself.

She rested her hand over the railing, rested her head over her arms, and almost fell asleep. I just keep wondering why I can’t write frequently. Maybe it’s this fucking job, where I also have to be creative to make good designs or shit like that. I think it’s the bloody day job because of which I’m just out of creative energy. Or maybe it’s just my self-diagnosed ADHD acting up. I wouldn’t want either of them. The moment I sit to write, I either end up crying or feeling so depressed that I turn to sleeping. And then I fucking wake up to heavier and heavier eyelids.

I swear to god, I don’t want to die a degenerate. I’d rather prefer dying a delinquent.

It’s not surprising, but I was distracted once again. I found myself randomly wondering how I could get some things which make me see colors in my surroundings. I don’t know, they say it’s the kids who find the dealers and not the other way around. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not desperate enough to see my hands and surroundings looking colorful from the intake of chocolates.

I always wanted to be wasted. There’s this golden ratio of aesthetic I see in cigarettes and alcohol paired with some coffee on the side. If everything in this world has a natural golden ratio of aesthetic, then so does a glass of 60ml Blue Riband with Kinley’s soda. And I love the aesthetic that shows me colors and makes my brain slow down like a running tortoise.

I would’ve wanted my life to be exactly how I made the plot for Don Tart in my ongoing book.

Currently, the story is at a broken piece. I am working on writing a dead person’s diary entry — it’s Don’s, but I have to constantly get myself into a negative state to imitate the kind of character I want to pour into “His Diary.” Dolly Silvers is still figuring out dough to fight the case against Don Szabo. It’s not really in a broken state, but maybe it’s just taking too much time to figure out a voice for a dead person.

I think I can be every single character I want to write about. I already have an idea of what Emily, Don, Vincent, and Dolly Silvers have to sound like. I just have to sit and draw them, dress them, and think of personas. I can really be all of them. I decided this one day, when I was going through my diary entries and realized that my diary entries could be Don’s. I’m not sure if It’s a common thing for writers to be their characters instead of looking at people to find the persona’s.

That reminded me of how I’ve only gotten to 5 chapters. I could show this to people and try to get some reviews and criticism. But, I mean, why can’t I let the whole book sink in like Kafka? I don’t publish any of my life’s works and just tell my friend to publish it after I’ve died. Maybe only then will I get words of dignity and humble appreciation. But I think that’s not really possible. The other day, a person around me called Kafka a ______ ______. And I was like, brilliantly ________ that I wanted to ___ him to blueberry jelly texture.

It’s romantic to listen to “The Only Hope for Me Is You,” knowing we’ve got no hope together.

Well, I shouldn’t continue with this absurdly foul diet. Though I ate a European bagel with a thin slice of bacon in it. I’m not sure why, but I think I’ll pass out on this seat itself.