Malvika's Ramblings

One of the times you dont feel like backspacing…

Sell your soiled soul to Lucifer and if it is not stained enough, he'll make sure he does it for you. The soul is bothersome, a boring thing to have. It snips your being in half. No man is a drag queen, no woman a callous lover with the soul attached, the tag of good, the tag of minimum decency. Throw it to the winds once - caution, controlled fun. Stop driving just fast - fast enough for thrill, slow enough to not die. Die. And die again. And each time live again. reinvent. there is no soul, no fixed you to preserve and protect. so each time it is ReInvEnt. Jekyll and Hyde. Faustus. Van Gogh. Later, sit with your head in your hands. mope. cry. despair. let your Mamma be happy. She warned you. She said "I told you so". And now you are in disrepair, torn and bruised and defeated. All that adrenalin rush and foolishness lead nowhere. Stronger people, cogs in the wheel are living life Kingsize now. Applaud the erstwhile bores. ANd then jump up, ReinVent. Be an imposter. Step on the accelerator. Go to Studio 54. Be a Lautrec if you like. The deafening roar of feeling Supreme. the blinding visions of being invincible, swirling, swimming around the world before it finishes one rotation. Sell it all. Believe in gypsies. kick them to death when they look at eggshells and call your life crap. Believe that a meteor will fall over you - a streak of divine shooting light - and will turn you into a Superman. Live in soap suds, Dreams and air light souffles. Step out from a movie festival, from a hall of darkness and 3 hours of losing yourself in a drama, into the harsh afternoon light. Harsh and white with zipping autos, oily and indifferent cigarette vendors leching at passing girls. Harsh light, so white, so bright. From spacious darkness to elevating whiteness. Don't bang into anything, just pick your way home. Or to Subhash.