of missed chances and lost time

so you started reading this stuff just now.
there isint much time left.
my mind is moving away into its own little world.
the light in the eyes is going, going far away.

look around.
you'll see what wrongs you are doing
letting yourself fall inside what you were out of.
there were moments of inspiration at times
but the match always gave out.
am i complaining?
maybe so, but tell me
is the past under my control.
anymore?

the past is always under our control isint it?
always. its just that we make it the past. and sometimes, the future catches up.

i rote some stuff somedays back. i started riting in a state of mind i have almost never had. it was interesting, to say the least. it wasnt pleasant, but it was interesting. here's some from that.

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pizza smells while you try to sleep. the opening of an electric opera on the speaker. violent drums. hendrix on the guitar. very indian drums, in a way. till the opens up the guitar and the rhythmn.

sunday evenings. a bottle of coke. not a pinch. just a bottle. yet.
post wody allen movie and a quasi erotic movie, there's nothing else to do. so i start riting. some people say the best novels get made like this. i dont think so. so test. bluepinkbluepink skies. with patches of light. biscuit billboard in the distance, beside the back of a 3-star hotel. wafting grass, seen in isolation could be the unknown part of an african jungle. sadly, all it is is the foreground of a city scene.
airconditioning exhaust funnels everywhere in sight. the ugliness of a pretty warm light somewhere inside.

the back of a woman in a black dress, lit by the covered bulb of a lamp in there. she looks back at the window loking through outside. but she cant see anybody.

the night is kicking in. the white gave way to the black. het, coke is black. so is my wallet.

a yellow guitar liew above the speaker which is giving out hendrix. cocooned. it must feel sad. nobody played it. a wasted potential. dying away on a wall.

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