a bite of truth

 Not being responsible is also being responsible; it’s just being responsible for not being able to be responsible enough to be expressing of not at all being responsible. There is so much responsibility in being a husband and a father. I don't want that responsibility; I wouldn't waste my entire life for it. (How can you be a man without responsibility?) Well, fuck it — I know that I am not capable enough to bear that, so I am expressing that I don't want to get into that and somehow cry or blame others for what happened to me. Tomorrow or together, I'd be happy living alone, caring for myself. I don't want to be a failed husband or father; I'd rather die in my own misery by being single. Most men marry for the sake of fucking, and love comes in between — and now the unwanted being happens, and you don't even have time to make yourself happy. You start being responsible without actually knowing what actual responsibility is. No freedom for the child, nor do...

  Funerals were meant to remember people about death; but people avoided it, discussing politics, celebrities, and also about the beautiful wives they didn't had, and the lives of others peoples beautiful wives. And only a few cried; they cried not because their loved ones were dead, but it reminded their own death—that they are not immortal, and they are going to vanish into thin air, just like that—and they were scared about that.

 “Wow, you are so much talented, and you look ok, then why don’t you have a girlfriend?” “Ok, let’s fuck, let’s fuck until I rip apart your thighs.” Well, I didn’t say this. People didn’t love truth; they want beautiful lies. You want lust, and love comes in between, and I wasn’t even rich either; they hated it. I said, “Why don’t you marry me then?” She didn’t speak. “That’s your answer.”

  People, education, religion, caste, contributed nothing to humanity except guilt. Now that he is guilty, and disintegrated, and disturbed, the soul has nothing to do but suicide; and it is nothing but an act of reaction, concluded by the years of conditioning. Somehow, getting out of this circle is proving ourselves completely mad; and, in the process, we gain nothing but people (Who in confusion might cheer a bit, but that doesn't seems consoling). And, in conclusion, everything we do to get away is from people, and we still have to be in people.

  holy fuck, i’d never be happy; i’d never lead a happy life. i’d never be able to get married (i never wanted to get married), and i don’t even want to have kids (why bring new trauma when my own trauma is not finished yet). i’d never be happy. i wish to die. Maybe nobody would care about me being dead, or care about my body, as they’d never care about a body of a dog scattered all the way on the road, with its blood all dark red, spilled all on the road— with vehicles not caring about the soul of it, while still driving on it: crushed to pain, crushed by the humanity, CRUSHED.......

 A teacher becoming a politician is just like a saint becoming a sinner.

  Sometimes people confuse torturing their bodies with devotion. Not sometimes—almost all the time.

  What if we all speak only truth for half the day, just try it; will your loved ones still love you, will you still keep the job you do, or the boss is still going to keep you? Will your parents still go on feeding you, do you actually love your parents, or have they done anything to gain your trust and worth? Or anytime till now have you acknowledged your true self, the self you cover with the beautiful mask you carry on; have you any soul, did you actually care for it.

 I never really tried to do anything—writing; it simply happened: I just wrote whatever came to my heart. And then sketching; I must say that I really understood the things—it took some time, but it was always worth it. And then watercolor: I am practicing it for about 9 months; I sometimes panic, but I somehow do it; I get some understanding every time I do one, and it gives me thrill. And driving—the Diesel engine—it drives itself, and I watch, sitting on the seat, just moving the steering left and right wherever the road takes me. All of this is good; but sleep… I really try hard to sleep; the more I try, the harder it gets. I end up getting delirious and panicky, and sleep paralysis is too often now.

 Whenever I go mad, like really mad, I couldn’t control that; I instantly want to kill someone—perhaps my father, the cause of it. Should I go with his mind or the entire body? I wouldn’t exist if he didn’t exist. And then I want to hit all the teachers who had taught me. Then I shift to punching my fist straight into the mirror, or to hit it directly—whatever happens to be there at the side. But wait, I say to myself, what if my fingers crack and bleed? The genius I am—how am I going to wave my fingerless hands to the public if I get famous? How am I going to show my middle finger to media when I get controversial through my paintings? How am I going to write anything down? How am I going to sketch? And lastly, how am I going to masturbate without it? Well, I would still have done it with the other, but it wouldn’t be good; but I wouldn’t be able to do anything else other than that. Then I stop my anger; I take out my bicycle and go out into the madness of these soulless, insane a...

“I was reading this, and Prince Myshkin is really delirious and has an epileptic fits. It was about 12 a.m., and after going to sleep—or, to put it the way as I was in the process of going into sleep—I had a violent sleep paralysis (I usually experience it about two to three in a month or two), and I was positively dead that I couldn't negatively wake up. But finally Dostoyevsky himself pulled me out. Now, what was he doing in my mind, and I suspect that he would rush into my heart as well.”

 “We are all spiritual beings, having an intellect trapped in a body; now, resurrection is possible, yet we hardly ever know it and never think of it, perhaps the little experiences bother too much."

 “Marriage is not a meeting of two families; but it is two families deciding to torture two innocent people.”

  Indians love India, but they don’t love Indians. Indians expect to be loved, yet they won’t love anyone.