I

I exist,
in heart and soul,
in half-truth and the whole,
in your thought and your scream
in your realisms and your dreams
I exist.

Not because I have to,
Not because you wanted me to,
and Not for the flowers or the pain or the colour purple.
Not for nothingness either.
I tried everything to define me
But couldnt.

I exist
in the empty ballrooms
by the dusty corridors
A cadaver of stories, of anecdotes
of secret thoughts that you never had.
I exist.

So you look for me,
Hope, color, perspiration
Fogging up your coffee of thought.
Prove me, un-prove, reprove.
What?
I exist?

I exist,
in the moth eaten books
in dimming aftershower rainbows
in broken violin bows
in sunshine, blackened by the night skies
I survive.

Don't now. Stop.
Move over; you are standing on me
Under me, within me.
All over. Omnipresent.
Desecrate me, you cant.
I exist...

[The year finally draws to a close; and what a year it has been! I have become a published writer, got a new job and finally chopped my locks (after 3 years!). And you, my reader, have been my side, through thick and thin. If you still haven't laid your hands on my book, do click on the big, black cover and get it home delivered. If you like what I write, spread the word among your friends and do Like my page on Facebook. Thanks for stickin' around. Cheers to a fantabulous year ahead!]

The essence of weird...

“First man on the moon yo!” chortled Neil Armstrong, knowing full well that this statement would remain only his. Then with more seriousness, he said “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind!” Claps, like static hit his headphones, but he ignored.

Over half a century later, the clock struck midnight and Mallika Sherawat, a Bollywood bimbette, turned forty. Heartbroken that she would look rather shabby in her skimpy clothes, she left her party in search of magic to turn her young again. “Stop dripping all over the carpet” she told a drenched undertaker, who had braved the rain and come to her party. She couldn’t care less.

A goat blocked her way and she ran into it without looking. “Move aside Kennedy!” she told her pet goat, who having found a liking to her dress decided to munch happily on it. It was her answer to Paris and her pet pooch; only, she had refused to divulge it to the media. She had started hating all that attention anyways.

She got out her umbrella and stepped outside. “You are going to die tonight!” the ghost of Neil Armstrong crooned as it floated above her.  “You are dead already!” she screamed at it and lightning flashed. She was suddenly standing with a broken umbrella, soaking, and a handsome John F Kennedy for company. “Always a fan” he said, bits of her dress sticking on to his drenched suit, as he locked her in a kiss…

[A 250 word exercise undertaken that starts with Neil Armstrong going on the moon

mission, and ends with Mallika Sherawat kissing John F Kennedy. Other characters in the

story should be a goat, an umbrella, and an undertaker. Oh, and if you like this, thank R.R. , who's

comment stirred me to get posting once again. Check out his rather awesome blog here.]