a bite of truth

 "How come you are not depressed, bro?" Well, you see— I have headaches, insomnia, low blood sugar, I cry over women not talking to me, I'm easily misunderstood, they don't like my beard, nobody talks— even if someone talks, for them I'm a vexatious babbler. If I don't masturbate, I get thoughts to kill a couple, and even if I do, all of my energy is sucked. I drink, I cry over a bitch, I don't have enough time to do all the works which I'm supposed to do, and moreover, my pelvic girdle and coccyx are hurting more than ever, and my belly is getting big and big, can't breathe properly, my neck hurts— and I have got all of these, and even more is that my homeopathic doctor stresses me over her variety of round white pills— a count of 4 to 5 to be taken exactly 40 minutes after eating— and she doesn't want me to drink any water for 30 minutes after taking those hard white pills, and it causes me more stress, and that's the reason exactly I don...

  Waking up early, you have to face humanity early. Like you give creeps to all the others you meet. You go to a tiffin centre and he's like, "Laude ganiki em pani ledu, poddunne nannu savadenguthundu." He won't be happy unless you offer him something. Like, you offer him some sort of help, and he offers you some advice—life advice. You have to keep a confused face until he finishes his advice, and then your face has to glow up after he completes it. Then he can be happy. And every man has to face this, and only some realise the utter waste of  it.

 "Whenever I ride or drive, my mind doesn’t think of anything except death. Not all the time — but always when I see a bridge, it flashes: this is going to collapse. Or when a 15-ton truck thunders past, carrying extra weight: yes, this might hit me, and my head would be a dosa — without the chutney. Or maybe I’ll get dizzy from low sugar. Or maybe I’ll be listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony — the second movement — and go crazy and drive off a hill. See, anything that has to happen, will happen. But not acting according to that — that’s the real sin. And yet, knowing all this won’t stop me from writing this down. These are the thoughts I have about death."

  "The Little Things I’ve Gone Crazy Over" I have never gone crazy about big things— like crying over a bitch, or wanting to kiss the beloved, or masturbating seven times in a day, or being depressed over a 9-to-7 job, my belly getting some fat, or losing weight from working night shifts, not having any sleep at all, or drinking too much or too little, or having too much money, or no money at all. But I have gone crazy— over a piece of quality paper, or a 70 mm lead of 0.5 mm thickness in hard black, or a color from my palette getting empty day after day, or losing a few hairs from my mop brushes, or some paint dropping on the floor while I’m setting it in the palette, or my watercolor paper getting too wet. I’ve gone crazy over the little things all the time— and I will never stop loving that little craziness I had and which makes me more and more crazy.