Never again.

I made to to-do list today. Its funny how sometimes out of all that you want to do, there's only a few things you can write down. Even to yourself. You're just kidding yourself sometimes. A friend told me today that hope was a dangerous thing. I laughed aloud. Hope is that closed door which is the only way out. Hope is that monster under your bed. Hope is a reflex.

You reach halfway through a novel and you realise that its just like your life and then all you want to do is open the last page. You're constantly in search of that happy ending. And then a happier one. We resurface from our ignorance with the apparent realisation of what we want in life only to submerge back. We're gluttons. Thats what we are. And all that is good and beautiful in this world is waiting to be devoured. One fine morning we're all going to wake up and realise that life is not a storybook. Life is not a song. Life is just...life.

I just hope to be more coherent.

The morning after.

But you feel like shit, the morning after.

Pissedofflazyrant.

I would be a better man if I would wake up earlier than I do now. I would be a better man if I would run five miles and eat right and read a book a week. Or two. Maybe three. I would then feel so much better about myself than I do now so much that I would not try to be a better man anymore.

I would then paint the most beautiful painting in the world and learn how to play the blues on the harmonica in three and a half hours. I would look at everyone and smile, for I'd be a better man. I'd never fall sick and kick ass at white water rafting and do parkour on the streets of Rio de Janiero while simultaneously eating caesar salad with the right fork. I would come home earlier and show my brother all the animated movies I'd gotten for him and get groceries for mom and check whether the mangoes were really good before buying them.

I would be a better man if I would move on. And stop thinking about it. If I would do ten more pushups and not think too much about the two fluorescent green eyeballs I saw under the bed a while ago. With an orange pupil on the left and blue on the right eye. Or was in the other way round. I would hold doors open for strangers and own a black mask and cape in a secret subterranean vault under my room.

I would be a better man if I would get up earlier than I do now.

Thats why I do not want to be a better man.

Ask me again tomorrow.

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Better.

Unfinished business.

A long time has passed.

I cleaned out my closet for the one last time today. Trashed it all. Old

workshop journals, unfinished paintings and pain medications. Trashed it all.

Two and a half foot long pile of garbage accumalated over the last three

years. Old tshirts, old notebooks, old blue jeans and a coconut. Trash.

Then I lay it all on the floor and spread it and sifted through it all looking

for those fragile trinkets with memories attached to them. Designed to fade over time.

Like the old blue jeans.

My closet door is filled with chemistry II formulae I wrote on it in my first year.

I don't even remember when I etched out the lyrics to Breathe on the table with a

compass. Probably during the times I used to carry a compass. A long time has passed.

I found an old notebook in which I had written about the guitar I wanted to own one day.

The make and the pickups and what her name would be. Everything. I looked around at Moonbeam. Exactly as I wrote she would be. Complete with the name.

On the very next page I'd written about the first exact moment when I knew for sure

that I had fallen for someone. More than I had ever.

Well, atleast I got my guitar.

I have unfinished business with this place. I will leave things undone. Unsaid.

I'll sleep on the cold comforting floor tonight. I'll leave a guitar string behind.

I'll trust the memories. They're designed to fade over time.

"Why must we live?"

"We must live."