Bhains.

....Because its so black and I ve got charcoal.

I am still alive.

Just to prove that I am still alive. And sketching. These are some who suck the least, which implies that they suck nonetheless. But that is okay. I am used to that. They were done in around fifteen minutes each with a 2B, in response to an extremely dull, stagnant, inwardly shameful and coal dust filled state of mind. Its the Pink Floyd, minus Nick Mason, which is ironic, him being the only one to have seen all their years. But I ll come around to him.
...I take a meagre refuge in the fact that they are just practice.

Top of the world.

Everything is fine here. On the outside. Perfect, if anything is.

There is a hill here. You can see all the lights in the world from the top of it. And more. Distinct. As if underlining their existance. Their loneliness. Their...darkness.

And a lake. And all the lights multiply in it.

The smoke from the industry chimneys stains the dark dark sky. Floyd sounds even better here. Sometimes I wonder if I am talking to nobody in particular. Just the smoke, maybe. And the smoke doesn't give me answers too.

As if I am alone in this. What is the use of sitting on top of the world if there is no one to look down and wave?

Maybe I am just a nice guy.

When it rains, it smells like home...

Bah.

Am still here.
Not gone very far. A bit ahead though. Drifted.
Not trying to swim. trying not to sink.
But still here.
Afloat.
But my dream is gone.
And my weight has gone with it.
So I drift. Nowhere in particular.
Still here.

Surviving.

I read a book. I scribble something on a piece of paper. I find it interesting. Lyrical even. I read it. In my mind. Under my breath. Aloud. When I am alone. Meek pride...

I will crumple it up and throw it away tomorrow.

I believe in God. It doesn't hurt. Formless. Abstract. Omnipotent. All encompassing.

The usual.

I make up witty statements to defend my spirituality. Suit up the words and make them look good. After a certain point of time, everything seems lyrical. Even this. Everyone listens to you then. Everyone but you.

God is....

I don't tell her. I don't intrude. I let it go. The reflections. The Kohl. The songs.

Afraid for her more than I am afraid for me.

Sigh.

I need people around me. I need people around me to prove to them that I am a loner. I sit alone. Apart. I lose in my thoughts. I brood. I sulk. And I glance at them. And I hope that they glance at me. And then I look away.

I blatantly ask for pity. Blatantly. I wallow in pain. I enjoy doing that.

God is pitiful because he looks down upon my inexcusably meager existence and decides to let me survive.

I am, in essence, docile. I am, in essence, an escapist. I am, in essence, only human.

I am, in essence, surviving.

I am.