Sleep

I've been sleeping for three years. When I fell asleep I was daydreaming about a well paid job with sofa sets and furnishing gifted to me by an alien who'd watch over me all my life. And what happened then?. I slept off. Someone took care of me...someone still is....and what am I doing?....sleeping. I've saved a lot of energy you know. I could have had a life. I could have contributed to the world's glorious economic future, fought for world peace, castigated the government for it's money laundering and atrocities on the underprivileged, lent my cause to free cinema, made the environment greener, planted trees....wait a minute...I still wouldn't have had a life but what the heck...I'd have made the world a far worthier place. All I've actually done is spend, and make sure more trees got cut down to make more paper....and bring in more money. Yeah...alright...I didn't even do that...I am a liar...I just slept.

When do I plan to wake up? The CWG committee in India has been assigned the job of looking into it. Why?....cause I paid only cash....no credit. They should be able to figure out when I'll wake up, hopefully by the time the games come next to Delhi. And while the committee still cleans its toilets, I dream....cause that's the only thing I can do while I am asleep.

I've dreamed of being naked and running on the streets with women looking at me, looking at their beer bottles, looking at me again, and then choosing to make out with the closest tree. I've dreamed of drilling holes in Mt. Olympus with my birthday suit. I've dreamed of being on a nude beach with women wearing diamond studded stilettos and men covering their magic wands with the Economic Times. I've dreamed of Asaram Bapu....who's not naked....but is offering the latest playboy technology in lieu of his 'sharan'. I've dreamed of a nude Mona Lisa...sorry Leonardo...you're not the only one. I've dreamed about new born babies playing strip poker with Monica Belluci. I've dreamed about Michelangelo's "Fall From Grace" for precisely that reason. I've dreamed about a lot of naked people so don't fuck with me or I'll strip you naked in my dreams. The point is that I've seen so much without actually doing anything.....I just wonder what I could see if I actually woke up.

Usually when I got done with the shame of being naked, I'd start looking for something...and I'd revel in my quest for the path less traversed until I realized something else was looking for me. I never find out what cause I ran. I've had glimpses of snakes and rats and bats and vultures and all the horrible little things that plague the imagination of the night but who could ever imagine I would get scared of black and white rabbits. The references run deep so I must avoid details...and even if you thought I'd be lenient and give you some...I can't....it's a dream...remember?...I am still trying to figure em out.

Now that sex and fear seem to be the obvious preoccupations of my superior subconscious...I'm often led to marvel at how shallow people can be when everything they dream of centers around existential dilemmas, questions about the universe, metaphysics, particle physics, life and the simulation of world order. The Greeks were shrewd bastards. They began civilization....drove us away from ourselves.....and sold us their own dreams to mint money for their Gods....and well...I'd almost certainly sue them today if I had the balls to question Aristotle. I can't....he'd keep counter questioning me...I'd lose millions in the lawsuit.

The human race should be proud of the fact that it has survived its own simulation and continued to display remarkable stoicism and the will to procreate despite all odds. Look at us Indians. The terrorists have wasted their libidinal energy on the country. Gun us down for all you care, you kill one, we produce a million. You have the bombs...we have the sperms. The other reason why we're alive is also fear, otherwise it wouldn't take us a second to blow each other apart. We are an amazing bunch of people, let me tell you people that. I find the waking world very funny, a car with loose fitting tyres. A world in desperate need of downsizing, or at least some respite from the heat. There's so much we can do if only we dream. Which is why I shall continue to sleep while the world continues to search for its own truth serum....and dream.....hopefully.

The Next

The soul sure as hell doesn't sell. We don't know whether it exists, or whether anything does for the matter. All we do is 'believe' in something, and damn right we're screwed if we don't. Well...why do we do what we do, and why do we do even when we don't feel like doing the do....and why do some of us never do...and stay out of the whole doing business while getting either laughed at....or hiding in wait for that elusive metaphysically stimulating cheeseburger? What happens? What is the 'next' then? Another construction, simulation, fabric, whatever you might call it, but eventually another artificially designated unit of time to suggest escape from the inevitable clutches of a dysfunctional past. God bless a certain Mr. Andrei Tarkovsky for those clutches....he decreed condemnation with his 'imprinted' glorification of the past...pretty much annihilating the essence of the present, and my future. Hell....that is complicated. You know what else is? Every second of your life when it isn't the life you dreamed of, or the life others dreamed for you...or thought you would dream. And you know it when that's that, you always do.

What then is my purpose of starting this meaningless endeavor in a meaningless world...umm...I mean the new blog? Respect?...Love?...Hello!...who let these words slip in?. Faith?....Hell no!....if I had faith I'd be living in salad bars and making love to a woman, and not a powerless computer monitor in the wee hours of morning. Existence?...don't remind me of it....I feel sick. Irrespective of the fate of my prick, I suppose I'm laying the next brick...contributing my bargain of the cement and mortar in constructing some universe for people to experience, deride, ride and wash their underpants in. Let's get a little academic here and brief through the virtual nature of my 'dysfunctional past'. There was....and embarrassingly is...an old blog carrying the 'story of the sand' somewhere on the world wide web. It's loaded with the grains of a loser cynic who sang paeans of love and longing and faith until for some smug reason he just became too darned lazy to write...and well...gave up the profession of an ordinary poet to become an extraordinarily ordinary filmmaker...i.e. if he still thinks he's one. The good news is that he has now evolved and matured into a comprehensively more ordinary thinker...with a lot of acquired social and cultural vacuousness to add to his pristine social perspective, which also involves persuasive discussions on Baudrillard, Jameson, politics and sexuality with supporters of extremely advanced and pacifist cultural outfits like the MNS and Taliban. What about his love and idealism and pain and longing and hope? He dreamed....waited....surrendered....eloped....hoped...hoped...hoped...until he awoke, broke, a joke, and way too doped. Good Morning Mr. Sandman, no world around, no right or wrong, good or bad, white or black, it's all a bloody blank, a blackboard being constantly scribbled with smaller chalks held by bigger hands. The bigger your chalk, the longer you walk. You can't do either?....just hope you can talk. Idealism be damned!

So...who am I?...the sandman?...the bricklayer?....the stalker?...a talker?. I am just a Hamlet lending my mind on free rent...unless of course I become popular....then I'll charge suite accommodation prices as rent for my left and right brain. Talking of which, I can already feel my brain getting fried in eggs, and I need to preserve them for breakfast. I shall conclude painting my first brick with an offer you can refuse if you've run out of patience, but if you are troubled by questions on the meaning of life and purpose of existence, I can guarantee you a space of ethereal nothingness, and a few Playboy Vids if spiritual enlightenment takes longer than you imagined. Maybe I'll write on films some day, let me make peace with literotica until then. No objectivity, no maturity, no self lacerating art, the swivel, the medicine, the bowel and the plain old fart. Good night people, and a good morning to all the politically correct innocents with testosterone injected rabbits in their cupboard. May you continue to despise, the pleasure of a juvenile sunrise.