20th March, 2016
One would assume that the most likely cause of overdosing to death is by drugs. That one wasn’t me. I’m never wrong. Slightly off topic when discussing points outside my domain of dominance, yes. But never wrong. Back to the ‘one’. He/She is an idiot (She kept capital to keep the feminazis at bay). ‘10 Amazing Facts You Didn’t Know About Atmosphere Pollution’ pop-up ads led me to the undeniable conclusion that people are more likely to overdose on common poisonous gases in the atmosphere than by drugs.
In fact, a small research on a social blog by an anonymous bipolar writer showed that more people died OUTSIDE of a lead pipe factory by poisonous air than by drug overdosing (which was , however, predominant INSIDE the factory). I knew then and there that the topic for my next subject regarding the content of which I shall write would be regarding drugs overdose. So here we go. Continue reading “2 : A BRIEF TITLED DIARY OF AN UNPUBLISHED, SOCIALLY AWKWARD, ASPIRING FREELANCE JOURNALIST”
(An experiment I’ve adopted, posting a quick-paced and hopefully engaging short story in 5 different posts, to keep them shorter, more honest and sweet to read. No one really wants to sit and read over 5000 words of stories while browsing. So hopefully this format can keep the readers more occupied and have them enjoy the story in comfortable fashion)
PART 1 OF 5
Running, fast and far. I don’t have a destination in mind yet. Just run, its after me. Lightning. I see some distance ahead as the light breaks through the thick storm, but not enough. More trees, more mud, lightning. I look back but I don’t see it behind me, its there I know its there. No stopping, just run, fueled by adrenaline to overcome how tired I am. Thunder. No, gun shot? The ground shook under the weight of the sound, the entire forest seemed to have been rattled. I couldn’t fall, I wouldn’t, I have to keep running, around trees and over shrubs, tugging myself across the soaked mud. Again, thunder, closer this time, I felt it to my chest. Thunder? Something whistled past my arm, I felt it through the air. Insect? No, bullet. It nearly grazed my body. A few inches to the left and I would have been injured. A few feet to the left and I could have died.
No denying it now, gunshot! Bark of the tree in front of me broke off into splinters.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Continue reading “THE TRAILS RUN FRAIL”
LOG-IN no: 1
1st March, 2016
So then, I decided to kick start this diary from today after much in depth and careful decision making from last night’s hangover (too much coffee). I came across my flare and innate talent for journalism some while ago and decided to waste no time in pursuing it. However, most offices didn’t see eye to eye with me on this and demanded that I produce some sort of a degree or award in the field. Having just unearthed my talent recently I had no such “official” degree behind me. It only fueled my passion for the work and I declared that I would make a name for myself as a freelance writer until I earned my stripes in the official institution of journalism and proved my worth and passion to the industry. The chairman heard my hearty banter and had his two best bodyguards give me the VIP treatment out the backdoor. The kind of hands-on respect I deserved (no joke).
Brace yourself world, there’s a new shark on the loose and it’s hungry for fresh, unrefined, mature, unadulterated and truthful facts…. It’s a very specific shark.
I shall dig out stories from the deepest oceans, the steepest mountains, the most bloodthirsty savannas, the darkest pits and the most treacherous rapids. Generally wherever there are fewer people. Yeah I’m not a people lover. As in, I love some people, but not all. Like only some specific people do i love, the rest are like passer-byers – if passer-byers were like slimy, slithery, droopy, ewww slugs. What I’m saying is that some specific people are okay, the rest really shouldn’t be there, they throw me off my groove. I don’t think that you need people to tell a great story to people. Just me, my stuff, my story and then the people can come and applaud. And I shall smile.
I vow to uncover an unsung story every day
6th March, 2016
Okay maybe not everyday. Cut me some slack, art takes times. Picasso wasn’t born finger painting abstract art, he developed it over the years and died perfecting – and a bit of regretting – it.
Bogged mind and dazed expressions
This plague coupled with doubt
Memory of dreams flicker hereforth
Lost for description, lost in thought
Now I see, what’s plain to me
Is comprehended in solidarity
Gazing at walls until they part
No command over my own material
This meditation is hollow, yet saddening, yet refreshing
Awaking realization of the world around
In a room so familiar under lights
Engulfed by sounds and sights, I ponder
Over scenarios and ideas nebulous to me
Drifting through thought as shade passes
Abstaining from slumber until the mind is drained
To a Council of sane men it’s insane
Yet the clarity it brought was sane
Caught me off guard in solitary embrace
These unuttered whispers speak of fate
“O man of words, your soul does crave
To wander not, find light astraight
Does life not grant this very path?
Alas! Confused by one’s own debate
Emerging roads leading astray, you waver
The light you so cherished does slowly fade”
I cry to dark, these whispers condemned
Left me in the depth of my arousal
Rest of the night, these thoughts I fend
Valid or not, could I be blamed?
What am I sewing? Why do I rend?
This yearning heart gapping for answers
I cry to dark “these whispers do send”
But they returned to me ever