Speed Writing

When the Sun sets deep into the bosom of the ocean after a tiring day, and the soft chat of the drizzle chills down the Earth, sitting on a woolen blanket on the cold stone floor, I shut my eyes and look deep into my mind. Through the cobwebs of convoluted thoughts, I found a serene, motionless space. My fragmented and crazed thoughts carefully avoid that spot, just brushes aside that, but never crossing the threshold. When I watch it so curiously, it gives me a blank stare. It can only be blank because it doesn't hold anything material, at the same time, that offers what the though-richs can't offer, serenity.

But serenity is what I seek? Being idle is something I love, sit alone at home, send away the casual guests once their time expires, lean back and muse about random things, day dream about impossible stuff, caress shapely women, cruise slowly on a dark cloud, walk alone in the green woods, imagination has its immense possibilities. I can kill the people I hate, do anything I want to do, it is a bliss, indeed.

Everything has a story, and everything around me tells me their stories, I just need to be patient enough to listen to those. The smoke rings that emanate from the tip of my cigarette tells me the story of the tobacco plant that grew in the Sun, the love of the farmer in taking care of it, watering it and eventually chopping down and trading over to a ruthless curer.

The chair I bought online tells me the story of its previous owner, the overweight Iranian girl who sounded like a little kid. It told me the unspeakable torture it had to suffer under her regime and about its travel from her hot and cluttered apartment to my place. It tells me that it was after a long time the sky had been on it, showering on it blissfully, washing away its sorrows, promising a better future.

Last night, the chair giggled seeing a girl undressing in my bedroom. It has seen the nudity of the massive Persian girl, but seeing this shapely girl's uncovered body added something new to it, so it giggled. When I came into the room, I was startled to see the girl standing there wearing only a nose-ring, but I soon realized it was just a residual image the chair was projecting.

In my last life, I was a bookmark belonged to a beautiful girl. She loved to read and she puts me always in between the pages and I'd read them. I miss most of the book, but memorized what I have read and when she reads the book for a second time, I'd add another page to my memory, a continuity. And when she casually puts to me to her lovely lips while reading, goose bumps erupted allover me.