Sunday, February 15, 2009

In Happiness and Sorrow

First time I met them was the day I was hurt. I had put my fingers into the drawer and shut it.

Second time I met them was the day I went to school the first time.

Third time I met them was the day I gave my lunch to a poor lady with a kid.

Fourth time I met them was when dad wasn’t home.

Then on, there have been so many meetings. Some sweet, some hard, some choking and some really sad. But they have always been the same. They seem to be so light within but take so much weight of me. I don’t really wish to meet them but I can’t help having them when they come. And after they have gone, I take a deep breath and i feel light.

Now I don’t meet them that often. They feel I have grown up and changed. My emotions don’t overpower me and I am insensitive now.  But the thing is I have stopped meeting them myself. I feel I have had enough and until unless I am too heavy inside I would not call upon them. I know they’ll be with me forever, as long as I breathe. And I know when I will need them. I know there are so many dark moments to face. Don’t want to mention them but try guessing from the fact that I am the elder son of my parents and there is a moment when it pains the most being the eldest son. I am sure I’ll need them that day. They’ll be with me even after that day.  They might just turn out to be the salt in my food.

The most wonderful thing about them is their sheer presence and meaning and purpose. They are never explained nor is their existence questioned. It’s beyond imagination how they can be instrumental in shaping your emotions both joy and sad.  They are God’s creation, a magic in itself and indispensable in life. If you have never met them, never experienced them, never felt them, you pinch yourself and check if you are alive.  Am sure you won’t pinch.  At times, you wish you get into situations where you happily long for them to be in front of your eyes. At times, you want them to disappear from someone else’s eyes and vanish into thin air. And at times you desperately want them to come to you, relax you and go away before their memories haunt you in solitude.

Crocodiles fake them, onions bring them, rains hide them and Clapton writes about them. . . .

They come in drops, heavy at the bottom.  They come in streams, dry at one end.  They come in pairs with a trail that creates an invisible scar. They are not controlled, they are involuntary.

And today I stand a foot away from the bed of my ailing grandpa and stare into his emotionless eyes and as if his eyes just pulled ‘them’ out of my big moist eyes, there they flow uninhibited, unfazed and unattended to.

My "tears" they are. Tears of grief and of desperation, of disbelief and heartbreak. They come cascading down in pairs from every edge of my eyes through the contours of my face in a stochastic pattern like two asymptotes on the curve of my lifeless face.

They stop after they have washed my eyes of all the sorrows to give me a sight, a clear one to think beyond the cause, beyond congested boundaries of misery and helplessness. My sleeve soaks them up and my eyes are dry again but the blemish that’s on my heart is not one to soak or vanish. But, yes.  Tears do lighten them and all that is left is a memory of those tears, those cries and those minutes of breathlessness. 

And you breathe in some air, smile faintly with lips joint together and wait for them to come and touch you again. 

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

I THINK. . .

Life isn’t particularly short.  I mean, you get to live for countless hours and minutes and seconds. Well, if you feel seconds are too small an entity to be counted upon then you should better think of “moments” which I feel are even shorter but then don’t you say “your happiest moment in life”, “your moment of glory” and all that.  So we do actually have a lot of time in our hands and when you are reading this you actually are letting by the seconds from the bag of your life.  But then, don’t think of this as a time waste because the greatest enlightenments, the weirdest thoughts, the mind bending arguments and useful realisations, all strike up in a moment of nothingness.  

Sitting alone by the side of my window and feeling the light on one cheek and keeping the other in dark and just letting the darkness and light within myself to fight amongst themselves sometimes puts me into a mode of peace and sublime satisfaction. Between drizzles, during power cuts, during moments of loneliness, during silenced afternoons and haunted nights, during wasted evenings and tiresome post dinner sessions (oh please, do not interpret the lines like the ones in those Hindi movies, that said ‘Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein khayal aata hai’ or ‘mein aur meri tanhai’ blah blah . .), I have often had sweet encounters with my thought process that finally made me write this. I don’t count these ornamented moments to be a waste of precious moments but rather it makes me happy that someday I was mad enough to think about these. 
I think. . . 
  1. The numerous fairness creams being sold in the market are the worst instances of racism. 
  2. The only way to ban smoking is cease the sale of cigarettes.  Banning it in public places is just ridiculous and government’s own way of saying, rather shouting that  “we care for your health as long as you are in the public’s eyes, so please find secluded locations and don’t be spotted smoking”
  3. STAR WARS was nothing but George Lucas showing off SFX effects. 
  4. Love doesn’t make you blind.  You were blind.  That is why you fell in love.  Well, if it opens your eyes or not is a different issue. 
  5. God is the most misused word.  Bomb blasts, extortions, riots, wars all just in the name of God or may be gods. (I don’t think I should capitalise ‘G’ in God because he isn’t one, there are so many)
  6. Sorry is the most over exaggerated word.  It has lost its importance since time immemorial. I mean, you use the same word when you accidentally nudge someone and when you have really hurt someone with your miscalculated words. It’s like using the same bar of soap for cleansing your face and doing the after-work.  It’ll clean no doubt but err. . . 
  7. Saying that yourself is a cool person is the most uncool thing to do.  I still don’t have an idea, since when this word has been used for living beings?
  8. Sachin is the God (I will capitalise G here.  There can be just one Sachin Tendulkar) of cricket.  But, he could not have been one had he played for any other country.  I don’t blame him nor do I blame India.  But yes, we are a bunch of maniacs who are driven by cricket, the sensex and the Bollywood.  India is great. 
  9. Police in India scares a normal people more than a culprit.  
  10. Foreign tourists being harassed is the best justification of the tagline “Incredible India”
  11. Man is too immature to handle something so advanced like the brain. God’s biggest mistake was to give each one a different brain. Else, there would have been peace. 
  12. Natural disasters and man made holocausts are not that bad.  They are the most effective ways of uniting people. 
  13. I am the worst pig to have forcibly made you read twelve stupid thoughts of mine.  But you have time people. You can do something less stupid now.  Life isn’t that short, you know. 

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

World of our Own

16th may, 2100 hrs.

As my fist gets tighter on the wrapper of a wafer packet and the volume of the television gets on to my head, I finally hear my little cousin sister of 8 years, who had come from Noida for vacations calling out to me. She asks me a question and all of a sudden the room is filled with a deafening silence. The wafer packet slips out of my hand and I try to pass on a wafer to her to keep her quiet. But, how can I think of an answer to her innocent question
“bhaiya, do fathers kill their daughters?” her voice, I can’t describe in words. It was innocent, polite and there was so much apprehension and fear in that subdued voice. If I were to draw a comparison, I would say the voice would be that of a mother who was just about to reveal to her adopted son that she isn’t her real mother.

Yes. Aarushi was killed heinously the day before and the numerous news channels had just got their own ways to shoot up their TRPs. Each portrayed a different story and added a more devilish touch to the already sinister act. Get over reality shows. This was real. It wasn’t reality TV, it was really TV. I couldn’t avoid her, saying it was unreal and just another cooked up story. She has always been told about the goodness of news channels and newspapers.

It doesn’t matter if her father killed her or the servant killed her or what the investigations said. I mean, how does it matter to us? Are we going to miss Aarushi personally? Are you going to light up candles every year on 15th may or are you going to spend sleepless nights crying? But of course, you would spend time in front of the television sunk in the sensational story and act like a top notch FBI inspector. I don’t blame the news channels or the newspapers for unnecessarily sensationalising things nor do I blame my sister for believing in them and asking me such a question.

What disturbs me the most is the thought that her little mind can afford to handle. I don’t think I could have ever thought of this possibility at that age. Even if I read novels where a father kills her child still, that would be confined to those dusty yellow pages of the book and won’t ever pierce into my brain. She is eight and she asked this. I wont be surprised if the next day she asks me about the whole fuss behind a rape and a death sentence for the accused? I can’t afford to answer all that for that can only lead to a deep cut in her heart, an everlasting fear and an impression too dark about this world which I am part of, her parents, her friends are part of and sadly even she is part of. I don’t aim at answering these questions. I wish I could remove the questions forever. May be I could take her to a different world, a cleaner one, a safer one and a more innocent one. Wish I could wash off her mind of all the dirt and fill it up with better thoughts. But, that would be simply foolish because eventually she’s going to be of my age, she’s going to live this world with its entire grunge and she might just face the same question that she asked me today. I don’t have a clue to her question. Neither it can be answered nor neglected. I am left stranded between the flashing screens of the television and her blank face, between the spice of the wafers in my hand and the total simplicity of her eyes. I reach for the remote but that is just out of shame.

What have we left for kids like her? A place full of blood, wine and sex? Is that what we call living in developed India? Huh. . Everything converges onto the human mentality. Crimes would never stop, nor would the investigations, nor would the news channels and newspapers. No matter how clich├ęd it might sound but yes, the people can change. Do we really need to indulge in such incidents; do we really need to make it our dinner table discussion, and do we really need to encourage the news channels to spice it up for our thrill thirst? The channels do it obviously because the viewers wish to see that. You may say I don’t but hey you people of the 21st century, don’t you realise the channels simply run on your viewership.
Have we ever talked so long about a disabled man winning the Olympics, or have we ever really awed about a rare surgery over and over again? Of course not. But murder mysteries, a war in Iraq, Osama’s heroics, split up and hook ups in Bollywood. They are our bread and butter. Why can’t we create a place where kids won’t get to hear of extortions, abductions, rapes and murders? Why do we always have to warn them before they board their school bus, why do we have to ask them to be in groups rather than be alone? Why can’t we teach our child that this world is a beautiful place to be in and that, humans are one united race and the most sensible creation of God. Sadly, that isn’t the case. In a world full of evils, how can a father waste his time explaining his son the genius of Einstein or the leadership of Mandela? He would rather use his time letting his son know the dangers of staying out late or the various dangerous people he might face in school and all the precautions he must take. Why can’t the front page of a newspaper contain a report about a flourishing India? Why can’t we concentrate on the result of a match rather than waiting for the dope tests of the players involved?

What do these little kids like my sister think about this place? They would be feeling like pet dog that barks at just anyone who doesn’t stay in the house. They would never believe that humans can help each other, that strangers will be friends and they would eventually marry a stranger, live with a stranger, work with a stranger and all that.
I don’t have an answer to her question nor do I have a solution to such stories and our mentality of splashing such stories with all possible colours and shades. I need help. I want an answer from you? I am yet to answer her. She would find an answer someday somehow but I feel like a loser, I feel guilty, I feel ashamed.

16th May 2200 hrs.

The wafers have dampened and the news has changed and my sister has gone on to find a better person to answer...

Sunday, May 11, 2008


This piece of writing is a tribute to the band that has made most sense to me and has given me kicks more than anything else, that has put me to thought unavoidably and has mesmerised me every single time. And of course the writing below is a celebration and a dedication for and to their loyal fans. (Only loyal and ardent fans are supposed to read this strictly)

Try imagining this. I know it’s not easy but not unthinkable. Imagine yourself snorting the best cocaine in a dark room caressed by the woman you always fanaticised about in your dreams, gently, convincingly, desirably and amorously, oblivious of the light beyond the room and oblivious of your bonded family ties and intentional unawareness of your own ethics. The final result- an ineffable ecstasy. Well, if you could never imagine that, try feeling it for real.

It’s the same feeling you get when David Gilmour slides his fingers over the six- stringer to play the solo of their band’s chef-d'oeuvre "Comfortably numb". Wonder how many people would have titled their Orkut profiles with these two words, wonder how many times a Pink Floyd fan would have exaggerated about it to his friends, wonder how many times people would have slept to it and wonder how many times people would have failed to understand the lyrics.
You press play and an ambient music of a synthesiser just fills every corner every space every void around you. I won’t be shy to bet 99 out of a 100 Pink Floyd admirers lose control over their optical lobes; eyelids fold down like the curtains in an opera theatre dimming away and giving way to an un-understood light within the dark territories of blinded eyes. And then come the magical words "Hello hello hello. . . " and if you were human and you loved them you cant do without humming. The lyrics keep flowing and your brains have gone dormant already to analyse the words. There’s good chance you might have already fallen deep into your sub-conscious self but just then. . . "There’s no pain you are receding. . . ." and you wake up (eyes still shut) to sing along. You continue till you have said "I have become comfortably numb". And now you leave it to the master. What happens in the next few seconds is not possible to put in words. The music grows on you like a dreaded creeper that refuses to leave the tree that has been its support all its life. You bask in timeless existence. The artwork continues. Oh . . . how do I describe . . . each string flirted is a gem of a disturbance, a kind of elusive emotion. The guitar seems to weep in achievement as if feeling proud to be done by the master, proud to be showing off its capabilities. But the master stands motionless, a black round necked shirt and a pair of jeans, an uncharacteristic vintage glow is all that can be noticed. As you indulge in the aura, the music starts to descend down into your veins, flowing through the blood and finally leaving your skin with hairs raised. The guitar seems to move away into a distant horizon but only after it has infected you, consummated you and narcotized you.

If at all anyone’s feeling that I am exaggerating about just another song of just another band played dominantly by just another musician, please allow me to say that all I wrote now was just an "understatement". Its criminal to describe Pink Floyd’s six odd minutes of virtuoso in a page of English alphabets. God forgive me or Floyd forgive me. . . after all they mean the same.

The number of hits on their site is not a joke. When people vote them as the band they want to see reunited again, they mean it, so what if the people were in diapers when they started playing. When Chetan Bhagat cited the "vodka Floyd combination" to get high, he wasn’t day dreaming. You need to give your "auditory faculty" a chance to appreciate. And then, you might just wish to check out their sites again, try voting for them again and read "Five point someone" again or may be try vodka again.

I had thought of writing about the band at first but my media player started playing "comfortably numb" and I became partial to just write about the one song. No doubt they have given "high hopes" to everyone, they have shown "bricks in the wall" and they have made people "come back to life" after being "comfortably numb". I tried my best on being a Floyd fan to make you feel what their music means to me but as my media player comes to stop. . .
now I’ve got that feelin once again,
I cant explain,
you wil not understand , this is not how I am,
I have become comfortably numb

Monday, April 21, 2008


I am a bachelor writing this very blog. And I do expect the readers to be bachelors as well. As I just return after a pacifying shower, its time to spray the deodorant can or may be press upon the head of that delicate perfume bottle. Phone rings! Could be my friend from the other hostel or could be my girlfriend calling.
Ok. . I know I am writing absurd stuff now. Point is about those four words in bold. Deodorant, perfume, a friend and your girlfriend. The thing in common. . They are all integral part of a bachelor’s life. Isn’t it?
But somehow I find an uncanny connection. It seems to me as if your friends (read "male friends") resemble a deodorant and your girlfriend, the perfume.
They come in a can. Hard, sturdy and reliable. Perfumes come in exclusive seductive glass bottles. To be carefully handled. Once let loose, they will shatter and you’ll lose it forever although its fragrance would not leave your room.
You change deodorants with seasons. You are always in search of a new one although you always brood over the new one thinking about the one you love the most. But one generally doesn’t change his perfume. It’s an identity, a statement and an addiction. You simply love to wear it.
Deodorants don’t burn a hole in your pocket and neither do you spend much time getting one. Perfumes are to be hand picked with utmost care and sense. Once chosen, they become part of your lifestyle and hence preserved.
Your deodorant is your daily dose of aromatic pleasure but perfume... they are a special possession, a collection and you don’t mind being selfish about it. And at times you tend to keep it at a distance from the many deodorant cans that you have.
I feel happy to find people appreciating my deodorants but I don’t wish to find someone having a thought about MY (and only my) perfume. [My selfishness has reasons. Please understand]
I have one such truly exclusive desirable and beautiful piece of redolence. I am possessive about HER, I am obsessed with HER and yeah, at all times very much selfish about HER. SHE haunts my room; SHE escorts my wardrobe and gives me my identity.
But then, even if I sprinkled my perfume this Sunday and it refuses to leave my shirt I still can’t move out without that refreshing spray of the deodorant. Its a habit, a daily phenomenon that always infected me, still infects me and will continue infecting me with all that I want. And I am never satisfied with one can. I need a few to lighten my mood and cheer me up. But of course, the perfume never ceases to diffuse, it’s there still tweaking my nostrils and sensitising my nerves.
I can’t do without either. I need both. All the time, all the while.
I know bachelors are smart enough to read the above. Any one who couldn’t please pass a comment.


A ruffled bed sheet, an air conditioned room and two windows. I gaze outside to find the sun playing hide and seek with the clouds, keeping people guessing about the hue of the sky this evening.
My eyes twitch at the prolonged sight of the sunset. Undone by the raging sun, I decide to have a shower. Shower taken, cologne splashed all over, a cup of coffee taken and a sigh of relief follows.
Its time now. No time to waste. Time to get wild, dirty and messy. Dressed in the lightest clothing and the most relaxing of foot wears I hurry downstairs . . . there she is!
The sun has set and though I failed to guess the hue of the sky, there’s just no way I could miss her. . Red hot. . She stands still there . . . as if she’s never interested in the sunset or in me. I try to stare at her from different angles yet no reaction. It’s just the mood she is in. Calm, quiet, dignified, always a fire within that never really flared outside. Her shadow gets longer, even longer and just when about to touch the leather of my shoe it vanishes in a selfish display of naughtiness and allure. The sun just denied me the darkness of her shadow, the depth of her virtual imagery.
I have resisted enough. I have been patient but I can never be a saint. My cologne has started to diffuse and it’s just the perfect moment to pull her into the intoxicating aura that enveloped me. Before I could lose myself in her and faint gazing, it was wise to step forward and tease her in the dark. The sun has gone down at the right time leaving us alone. It’s just me and her mood.
I have known her but never felt her, never touched her, never spoilt her. I step closer. As I get closer, I start to get intimidated by the silence and the stance of her. I believe she can just break this silence anytime, can light up the darkness at a touch and can just burn the whole air around in a flash. Enough of mind games and enough of my timidity. One look over the shoulders and I step faster. She is just a step away from me now. I hold her by her arm and fling it across to give myself space. Now I am confident. She is shaken a bit but nevertheless silent, yet that fire is just about to go up in flames. She even "feels" hot. . . I am all comfortable and as I move my hands across her inside, I start feeling like Alexander. It’s softer inside. . . A twist and she now reacts. The silence is broken . . . a push there and it no more seems to be dark. I can see the curves "ahead". I press on her. She growls and moans and then a little pull just sets the fire on. She takes me to a different world and time seems to just fly. She is shaken "me" now. I am floored. But I don’t stop there. I press harder and I just fiddle around with everything. I push, I pull, I shove, I fondle, I thrust and now I can feel her under the skin. It’s an experience. I indulge in the process and she keeps me pushing harder . . . into the "corners", out on the "straight", into the darkest areas.
All expectations have been shattered because I had always been a silent spectator. Now I am hers and she’s mine. I spoil her and she spoils me even more. I get naughty and she makes me feel dirty. My hands are getting stiffer and I am sweating. My heart is beating like thunder; my panting could challenge any of the dogs on my street. But I am not tired, I am just thrilled to the limits and I am yet to find if such a limit exists!
Its got real dark now. I have had the ride of a lifetime. I ease myself around her and just try to get over her magnetism. I slow down, relax and go back to where it all started. I again fling her arms wide open to free myself from that whirlpool of orgasm and climaxes.
Surprisingly, my shirt is intact, there is sweat in my leather, my hair is just a bit shabby and the cologne still haunts me. I retreat to give her a final look. She still is hot and the fire still burns. There is darkness but she shines. There’s silence again but now I am no closer to her and she decides to give silence a chance. Mesmerised and transfixed by all this I look around . . .
I can smell burning rubber, I can see the marks on the asphalt and I still hear the echo of a rip-snorting, gas guzzling V12 Porsche engine . . . she made my evening . It’s not every time you feel like praising someone. But now I am confused . . . should I fall in love with her or just thank the people who made her so beautiful, so desirable and so much unreal.
She stands there, her lights try to wink at me and say "wanna go for a ride baby". That shimmering red paint keeps me tempting. And those seven letters "P O R S C H E" still make me thank the "real" people behind the wheels.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

To whomsoever it may concern

It was raining cats and dogs. I ran for shelter under the shredded roof of a betel shop. Feeling the chill of the weather outside, I shivered from within and asked for a cup of tea, gulped it down my throat but still didn’t feel any warmer. Suddenly I got disturbed by the smell of burning nicotine. Yes, that white long stick distracted me or may be attracted me. I suddenly felt, may be that’s what keeps people warm but you just hate the smell of it and say," yuck!" . Or may be. . . . its worth it!!!
Dry and fine, I join my friends and their so-called "better halves" for coffee at an obscenely expensive coffee-shop. I’m kind of the uncool individual there, without a girl, without the stick within my fingers. I move my eye balls from faces to the fingers (this time the stick looks longer, may be to impress the girl), up to the mouth following the trail of smoke, at times even rings! Even if I’m wearing Levi’s and Nike, I am still way below being called a cool guy. I think I’m hurt for not being cool.
Sunday afternoon laziness . . . a heavy lunch retards my pace as I walk upstairs to my friends’ room. And again, the same white stick, the same stinking smoke but this time used for lightening your tummy a bit and may be act as the finishing touch to your lunch. As if water couldn’t suffice, that you had to take help of smoke . . . simply ridiculous! And suddenly, my best friend takes a puff for the first time and says its "good". That was enough to raise my hand and ask for IT. All mind games had been battled out and I had finally decided. I somehow manage to get it within the index and middle finger, very unprofessionally and now managed to get it between the lips. Friends looking in sheer excitement and smiling in sarcasm. I try breathing in through the mouth, smoke fills my mouth and I spurt it out in discomfort. The smiles turn into laughter and my injured ego forces me to go for another puff. And I say it feels "better" pointing to my best friend.
First steps of sinful misconception!
Thoughts come flooding into the mind. I think of all the years without a puff, my parents, I had thought I had fought all the mind games but this was just the beginning.
Days pass by. Now I don’t go by puffs, it’s the number of sticks that count. And I lose count of them as well. I now feel like a true "cool" engineering student. I show off my cigarette wherever I can, preferably in a group of non-smokers making them feel the way I used to feel. I feel I’m a winner; a sense of achievement engulfs me. I take notice of the price of all kinds and all brands of cigarettes and even the length of each. And now even get into arguments concerning the tastes of them. I have my own brand and I feel like I’m its big time brand ambassador. I crave for that last non-existent puff! They say the last puff is like the first kiss!
First steps of misunderstood achievement!
I have learnt the tricks n trades of the art of smoking. I can make rings, involve my nose in the process, drag the whole stick in two breathes and all other kinds of movie-inspired artwork. I realise the carbon that hugs onto my lungs but the realisation is just not enough. I am educated and I do read the statutory warning on the packs but then, I feel like a fool to believe it and I just focus my eyes on the white and beige stick.
First steps of deliberate ignorance!
It’s been a year now and a cigarette no more excites me the way it earlier did. Its just part of the daily action, no special attention paid. I lie on my bed and try to find an answer in the whirling and zipping smoke. The smoke irritates my eyes. I look down and I find butts of all kinds scattered all over the place. My eyes are irritated again, this time by the sight of the floor, a bit of hurt attached to it. They surely did make my room dirty but when I think of the lungs, I realise they must be dirtier, carbon studded and unhealthy.
First steps of intellectual realisation!
It’s a chilled breezy evening. I walk out on to the field to kick a bit of football. Tiredness was the only thing I could experience, the joy wasn’t there, neither was the healthy feeling of doing something good. I could feel my stamina falling like cycles in a cycle stand, just no end to it. I could hear my heart saying "Stop! Damn it!". . . I can’t take it anymore. I go by my heart, return to lay down on my bed, light up a stick and ease down on the fluffy bed. As I try thinking about the game, the pain of breathlessness wakes me up. I stand up in dismay. I feel someone stole away the oxygen from my room. I start panting like never before. I don’t have an answer, the smoke has betrayed me. The butts give me a sarcastic grin, the stick still burning with vengeance.
First steps of fearful disbelief!
I am looking down, in front of the doctor, who has just told me the state of my lungs. Bronchitis! I look up in utter shock. I feel like moving back in time. Back to that rainy afternoon, back to that coffee-shop, back to my friend’s room on that very Sunday. I wish to change what I did. But it’s beyond possibility. Only thing that comforts me is that I have realised it early, it isn’t that late. But the damage is irreparable, physical, mental, social, and financial.
First steps of thoughtful retreat!
It’s a new day and I am feeling fresh. My room is clean, there’s a fresh air blowing into my room. It feels the air just kissed my lungs and said" I had missed u". Suddenly the questions have vanished, my guilt has perished and my eyes have opened to the world of my own, beautiful and happy. I meet my friends and I feel "proud" to say I have quit! They try testing me but one night has just changed it all. I have got stronger by the heart, cleaner by the mind and I am blunt enough to just nod and say No! I am feeling stronger, healthier and happier. There’s this feel good factor that drives me through day and night. The smoke has become an enemy; the butts have become long distance scenery. Life’s simply beautiful. I wish to live longer.
To all my friends who smoke, try drawing a line on your wall and call it your lifeline. Try erasing it with every puff you take. You might just tear off the line in disgust or you might just vow to keep it constant. I wish your heart is strong enough to go for the latter. You may never realise how every drag actually drags you closer to death. Say goodbye to smoking and let’s breathe clean air for a change! Don’t wait for an asthma attack nor wait for your doctor to warn you nor wait for your girlfriend to request you. It’s your life. Live it longer, healthier and happier.
Why smoke when you can always breathe?