An Uncanny blog from a Baleful child

Shit Happens. Life sucks, and then, you die.

God sure has a very twisted sense of humor.

This is the tale of a Girl who has lots o'time to spare

Come take a glimpse of the world I live in... Where neighbors seldom love you, where people have more hair on their armpits than their heads, Where grammatical errors are are a way of life, and everyone is 26.
And that's just their IQ, nevermind their age!

Saturday, February 6, 2010

An extract

This is just an extract from the novel that i'm thinking of writing. It's still crude, as the end product will be much more superior to this draft, but i will post this, anyway. The ray of hope still shines through, doesn't it?

'I didn't decide to die.
Nobody decides to die. sometimes, its not a choice. Everything else can be chosen. Everything.
but death is a necessary end. It isn't an option. I'm not deciding the end. I'm merely ending the novel before the due page.
So, you see, i haven't DECIDED to die. I'm not one to decide what starts and ends in this world. I only decide to do the things i do.
We are all born with a certain religion, an ethnicity, in a place at a certain time in an era that, as we grow, we call 'yesterday'. I could've changed my religion. But, here, i chose not to.
i chose not to, simply because its the easier option. I could've changed homes, changed ethnicity to an extent, get a sex-change or even try to surgically MAKE myself white. i chose not to. simply because it was an easier option.
So, i haven't decided to die, because death has to happen, as it will. it's not a decision. i cannot choose to do something that is bound to happen, anyway. i have merely increased the speed of time by altering the aspects of my life and of those around me.
It's not that i do not have control over my life. It's mine, after all.
Here i stand, in front of the mirror at seven in the morning. I usually wake up at four thirty. Of course i have total control. i choose my bedtime and the time of my rising. Ordinarilly, i wake up one minute before the alarm rings. i stare at the ceiling till it rings, and then shut it off after that. I then proceed to running toward my bathroom, almost slipping over the rug, and then start brushing my teeth. by four fifty two and seven seconds, i'm in the shower, trying hard to keep the shampoo out of my eyes. it's around five twelve and a second when i pat myself dry, stare at myself in the mirror, and rush toward the wardrobe. by the time it's five thirty and fifteen seconds, i'm in my formal wear, and- briefcase in hand -i am walking toward the sedan. I reach work at six and, ten minutes and forty-eight seconds later, i have already assigned five tasks each to most of my subordinates.
So, not only do i have complete control over my life, i have the same over the lives of others- not to mention the course of time, itself. Now you see? We can choose to do things, but we can't choose to die.
I am not Veronika. My life is not a novel, and Paulo Coelho is not my literary father. I do not have any spiritual awakenings, and neither have i lost the hold of the strings that defy the perfection, that is me.
I still stare at me in the mirror. The only difference is - she isn't me. She is a middle-class low-life with no social life, no friends and bags under her eyes. Her eyes are puffy and red, swollen are their lids and rub-lines are what adorn them dearly. Her hair are a messy tuft on her head, and lines, of what look like effervescent tears, are running down the rouged cheeks. She is a girl who left her home after her parents tried to sell her to her wealthy uncle for two sacks of rice, She is a girl who stole bread from houses, clothes from their lines and made fire from torn paper and broken matchsticks. The only possible similarity between us is our age.

Who is she?
What is she? A microbe? a bag of chemicals born of the sin that two people committed, that they still regret?
Just a reminiscent of lust long disintegrated? What??

She makes mistakes, she lies, she cheats, she steals, she cries, then laughs. She loves, she loses, she cries some more. She hurts, she bruises, and the tears cease to stop. Is she made of salt water? or sand? Or just a wandering spirit who found shealter in a random body? Who is she, anyway? A 'nothing-special girl'? A nobody? A random soul in a crowd of a zillion random souls? A spec of dust? A scrap of filth?
She may be all or none of these, but she'll never be me.
I'm the youngest executive to have reached the top of the career ladder in five years of doing the things i do. I have the perfect life, the perfect job, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect social life. I have a great appartment, a splendid pay, my own wine cellar -but then again who doesn't?
Oh. Sure. She doesn't.
And yet we stand at the same level. Yet we see each other when we look in the mirror. Life is strange, is it not?
Out of the blue, green, electric purple, techno burple, and every other shade and tint the common man ha s made acquaintances with, a bony hand moves toward me. Invariably, my hand moves toward. the two hands touch, and burst of light, heat, and electricity begin to reverberate through my entire body. Our hands quiver against each other, both perfectly manicured, both with a slight chip on the left-hands pinkies' nail. I move closer, and the teary-eyed girl copies me to the ump. I begin to feel the hand i have beneath my palm. It's not fleshy and knotty, like mine. It's hard, and cold, and lacks a typical human feel to itself. It had definitive scratches on its surface, too. Time and unfortunate razor accidents had worn out the wall between the Nothing and the Everything of the chimeras of divine imagination. I place my cheek on this wall, and she reciprocates. I melt under this union, as the fire of me and the ice of her meet, and, suddenly, her cheeks aren't so rosy anymore. The known sting gets caught in my eye, as the wall acquires an odd moisture from a source unknown to me.

I didn't decide to die.
Nobody does.

I pull away from the illicit embrace which i wholesomely share with my nemesis. I look into her eyes. There it is, the warmth. The sadness, the humility, the mortification of being alive and being of not use to this world, or the next.

Nobody decides to die. They merely provide sleep to a moribund life, which will end, as like, as not.

I look down at the watch on my hand. Passively, i reach for my cell phone.
"I am one hour twenty minutes and twenty-two seconds late for work," unthinkingly, i reach for the clothes on the rack behind me. Counting the minutes, i plan my perfect life , where my perfect self shall reach work to realize that all the fuckers who work under me are slacking off, like the humans they are.
I could've ended the book here, i could've stopped time.

I chose not to.
Only because its the easier option.'

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