The Streetlight stared down at him like a one-eyed pirate, spilling shadows around him like stolen coins. The night was just about begun.
The city was a farce. Milling people, loud thoughts, unspoken actions. A Bad Attitude, ready to snap at you if you provoked it even slightly. The city was a hunter's trap, rusted out of corruption. The animals roamed free tonight.
He walked in slow measured steps, thoughts circling endlessly, bats caught in a disturbed cave. He walked down to the grub-joint, his morsel haven. He would not eat much tonight.
The people did not pay much attention. A dog barked somewhere. The night refused to go down quietly. Another fight tonight.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting the fight of the decade! On one side, we have the reigning champion, the nearly insurmountable Wit! On the other, the challengerrr, light yet totally menacing, almost death-like, we have the less popular Wisdom!! Brace yourself , ladies and gentlemen, as we get ready for another gut-wrenching battle tonight!"
His head felt light, thoughts scrambled like eggs. He could not, but he would have to. Shadows raced him, as he lumbered towards his shack. Something; anything out of the jumble. Clarity still came costly, and his senses were just about broke. Buying it out would be tough, but not impossible.
The lock yelped as he turned the key into it. "Mongrel lock", he thought and a fleeting grin almost formed on his lips.The door opened, a gateway to more turmoil, more thought. The guitar lay on one end, quite forgotten, procrastinating. No melodies tonight. The cooler came on with a grumble. He settled down on the bed, a novel lying neglected on one side. Desperation, the title said. How apt. He turned its pages, still trying to stack his thoughts, rumpled clothes upon a shelf. Sleep took over, stealing into his senses like old age.
Next morning was a blur; phone call, flash bath, tying shoelaces, flying down the road. Almost ran out of breath, like a kettle, wheezing a little. He crossed the road, now reaching the railway tracks. A train trundled past, listless faces looking at him like they would look at a caged animal. He crossed through, still trying to come up with something that would be coherent, something conclusive. A total muddle, fleeting ants on a forgotten crumb. At the lift now, waiting to go up to his office. Signed in, to realise its the last working day of the week. It would be a week today, so there would have to something . His personal deadlines danced in the back of his head, teasing him. Flashed his card on the slot and headed towards his terminal. He switched his computer on, and waited for it to boot. Words circled in his head, eagles, refusing to perch and just happy circling. Someone told him that Friday held so much promise since it was the last working day. He stared into the screen, a final thought almost screaming out,
"I must blog today."
He hunched over his keyboard and fired away.
(I seem to be facing some strange sort of a block. Its not that I cant write, there are a billion things playing in my mind, all wanting to come out at the same time. I just cant sort them out. I hope to come out with something more intelligent soon. Till then, I can just hope that the stuff above would give you an idea of the rigors that I go through to come up with something passable. The narrative is slightly inspired by Frank Miller's Sin City which I was reading sometime back. And yes, Desperation is a novel by Stephen King, which I am reading right now!)