Brooks and Broadways

What makes me real? The question comes every time, every fucking time. Blurred lines like a shot of cocaine, cut down, ready to be ODed. The temptations it brings, to make a roll and sniff. Sniff motherfucker, sniff it up. You give in, someday you do and you lose. Lose everything into that soon to end trance, like the moments while drowning, when everything is blurred and there is no weight to carry and no direction to go. Then comes the moment, the moment of fucking truth. The moment when your blood is deprived of oxygen, and your brain tells you that. You have that urge to breath and you fight, holding on to the last of moments left to fight. A fight you are meant to lose, anytime soon and for only once. Then comes that spasm, and you lose, you lose your fucking life you were holding on to. A gush of water fills your voids not meant for it. Your every muscle, each and every single one reflexes for one last time and that is the last. It is then the drowning starts, not in...

Ever wondered what life might be worth? If it can be bought out of money? What might be the price difference between living and dead? Ask me all this and for what its worth today, my answer will be a dollar (60 for my Indian peers). Today I set out, all energised and fresh. On the back of my head were thoughts, continual stream of bullshit and shit that matters, but shit nonetheless. Life today was not the same, an array of problems had risen to make a few last-nights sleepless and yet, I had set out to a meeting, to make a proposition to a talented young to work aside me. Some few bits of courage left were gathered to make it work and they paid off. The problems still persisted, and only intensified as a result of the meeting, more responsibility and so, the liability. I was riding back, and with all that chaos in mind already sapping the last of me, I felt it, a tick, the breaking of few threads on which my life depended. In the extreme traffic and at an unsafe enough speed, ...