Where we question our selves, and others, and that shady dude who has actually pierced a hole in his newspaper

I wonder if anyone actually did that. Is there any truth to that at all? Did some random spy types actually make a hole in the newspaper, right at eye-level, and then went ahead with all the spying and all.

I wonder what it would be like to be a spy. Getting back home, after a long day of work. Pulling off the shoes, and the socks. Throwing the keys and the badge on the table. Would you still be interested in what your friends and family are telling you? Or would all your curiosity be spent.

There must be some limit to curiosity. Surely. You can’t be extremely curious about everything all the time, can you? How much information can you store in your mind? Is there some unit for that? This fellow can store upto 7 bbs of data. How would you quantify that data? How do you actually break down memories and information into units when they are stored in your mind?

What about data corruption? The slow decay over time. The mixing and matching of memories, overlapping each other until it is difficult, no impossible, to differentiate each one. You think memories are like ghosts inside your brain? Just floating, almost ethereal, and the longer they stay in there, the more translucent they become? Slowly fading.

Slow decay. Fast decay. It is all a matter of perspective really. I imagine having perspective to be akin to having a telescope kind of thing. Or a really big blackboard. Like a really, really big blackboard. But it is not always about the trees and the forests, it can work the other way around.

Sometimes the words come out, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I think that if I wait long enough, it will be all okay. Other times, I think that I will just be dead. Isnt that what happens to everyone. Death. The long sleep, the final time out.

 

 

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Where we run into walls, alright not run run but walk into

It happenz.

Shit happenz.

Shit happenz in the morning.

Shit happenz in the morning and sometimes in the night.

Shit happenz in the morning, and sometimes in the night, and when you have had too many keema samosas then toh it will happenz all the time.

Okay I can’t beat that.

Kheema samosas.

I mean what a pure frikkin genius idea. There you have some kheema, delicious kheema all soft and pretty and looking so cute in those tiny little pieces.

And then you have the samosa, that crazy deep fried little fucker. Multiple skins, with reducing levels of crunchiness.

Mix the two.

What genius only broooooo.

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Somebaady once told mee…..that the world is gonnaaa rule me.

I think they were right.

.

I think we should have a talk. Like a proper talk and not one where you are staring at your phone half the time. Do you hear me? Can you hear me? Are you stoned right now? Oh my god. Its only eight in the morning and you are already stoned? What on earth is wrong with you? Did you buy all the vegetables? Please tell me you did not forget the milk? And what about the samosas?

See what I (am trying to) do?

Maintaining continuity is a challenge when it comes to fiction. I don’t think we were ever supposed to be in control of time. We are simply not meant for it.

Nope.

Not meant for it.

.

 

 

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Where the pain begins, a soft puppy who rips off your toenails

I always thought Pain would be a real benign looking fucker. Cute even, perhaps. The kind that raises no suspicion, and so you allow them into your lives. And it sleeps by your feet, and because the feeling is so new and not something you are used to, you let it. And slowly, slowly it grows and grows. And now it is no longer just sleeping by your feet, but biting your toenails and giving you nightmares. And you try to get it out of your life but it seems like there is no point at all, so you slowly give in little by little. Until, well, until you die.

The End.

Now children, who would like to hear another story?

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I think there is something to be said about generating low expectations. Keep them low, real low. Like that song. And she got low low low.

Apple bottom jeans?

Anyone?

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I wonder what cavemen did to pass the time. They must have been plenty tense most of the time, always looking behind their shoulders. Always alert, never really sleeping, always alert.

I don’t know you know. Maybe they were actually really chilled out fuckers. Like just no worries, and just hanging out, nibbling some leaves now and then and indulging in free love. The painters and artists in their own tiny world, always on the lookout for something new to paint. You think they had imagination back then? Wonder when that came about – imagination.

Difficult to measure that I think. What is imagination? Who possesses it? Is it a purely human invention? Or is there more to it? Is imagination what you get when an animal’s dreams enters your mind? Or imagination what the animal inside us is thinking? Is there a universal imagination? Something that connects through and through.

Who knows.

 

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Where the oranges are squeezable, you know, like well, oranges

Clean thy mind.

Now.

Now only.

This whole squeezing thing is quite strange if you think about it. Changing the shape and dimensions of something, with or without the consent of the owner of that something. Suddenly, that thing no longer occupying the same amount of space. Or maybe over time, the squeezed thing will return to its original shape. Maybe.

Maybe it will become something new or something old. Like a squeezed orange. No longer of any use, to be discarded.

Squeeze with care.  You never know what you may end up losing.

Well, actually you should have a pretty good idea of what you are going to lose (or gain) but you may just not want to admit that the change can be irreversible.

Irreversible.

Like a maruti omni van during an earthquake. Try reversing one of those buggers, I dare ya. I dare ya I say.

Where are we going with this?

Who knows.

 

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Where the heads are held up high, on the tips of long stakes so that everyone can see

Right on the tippy tippy tops.

That must be quite an intimidating sight. Just heads on sticks. Being waved at you. Threatening you. Your safety. Telling you to get the fuck out of whereever you are. No time for subtleties.

There really is no time for subtelties. At least on most occasions. I wonder what else there is no more time for, as if time is some sort of limited quantities only type product. How much time is there in the world? Just how much time? If I had to dump time into those massive trucks that cough out that black smoke, and if each truck could hold maybe 4-5 tons of time, how many trucks would I need to carry all the time in the world?

I wonder if you could actually carry time.

Take it from this place to the next. Equal it all out. So then suddenly people in busy places have a little bit more time, and people in less busy places have a little less time but they don’t really mind cause it wasnt like they were running out of time now were they? I wonder if you could carry time in your hands, like a little soft puppy. I wonder if it would smell, and if you had to be real careful not to drop it.

You think it would weigh a lot? Just a little bit of time, just a handful. You think time is different based on where it is found? Like Italian time is slightly lazy, and getting a bit fat too. While German time is all strict and proper, and walks in the exact same ratio as it always has. You think you could mix these two times? Wonder what you would get if you could do that. Some sort of hybrid time that is on time most of the time. But will suddenly go on vacation for no reason at all.

You think micro-seconds actually look up to seconds? Wishing and hoping that some day they too would be as long, and the same with seconds and minutes, and minutes and hours, and hours and days, and days and weeks, and weeks and years, and years and decades. Or is that too human an approach. That microseconds are aware that they are just one part of this gigantic, enormous entity that has no beginning and will have no end. That they are just a part of the equation, a tiny tiny part but a part nonetheless.

Who knows.

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Where we realise that happiness is often hidden in small things, like freshly fried corn pakodas

Seriously.

Just had the most amazing pakodas in the whole frikking world. They were crunchy, fried a few seconds ago, and still light and airy. Sweet mother of the good lord only.

Matlab saaaax ho gaya tha bhai.

Ekdum saax.

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I dont think I have ever really told anyone about saax. Saax is like an orgasm without the fucking. So yeah you don’t have to get nanga punga AND you still get maximum bang for your buck. If you know what I mean.

It is like that feeling you get when you have just found a place to pee after HOURS of holding it in. Like prostate damaging-ly long. And then you pull out your pee pee (or not) and just let it out. Super fast at first and then back into that regular pace that you are used to. Feeling your pee pee veins (I failed at biology) relax or tighten as the last few drops find their way out into the open world.

That, dear boys and girls, is saax.

And you have to say it with your mouth wide open. Stressing on the “aaaa”, like when your doctor asks you to stick out your tongue and say “aaah”. And in your head you are going like, “What the fuck bitches. Is he going to cut off that hanging thing in my throat”.

Shit what is that called. Those hanging things. Those things were used to great effect in cartoons. Especially to emphasise when someone is yelling, and the camera zooms in and you can see those hanging fleshy things dingle and dangle like shivering fatties.

Another great band name right there, shivering fatties.

They could be a nudist band you know, the shivering fatties. Performing in the Scandinavian countries. Losing a band member every now and then. Poor fucker. Strumming away until his fingers turned numb (not the only thing that turned numb har har) and then shivering and falling onto the floor. With the audience thinking “Damn, they did the same thing during their winter concert in Sweden. They should get a new act”.

A few years ago, the shivering fatties would have probably survived. People’s lighters giving them that warmth that was needed. But now. No. No way, the phone flash could heat them up. Plus, they have banned lighters at a lot of concerts.

It would be cool to be the Master of the Banned. Like you get to decide what gets banned and where. It would be fucked up if you were a crazy sonofabitch. Like serious mental health issues type crazy. Randomly picking up things from the Not Banned and putting them in The Banned list. Just like that. For no reason at all. And then, just to fuck with people, you would move them around the other way too.

Not like that actually happens.

Nope.

Saax. Arre tera toh saax hone wala hai bhai

Saax.

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Where we steam, pretending to be momos and vegetables, and the scandanvians with their fancy schmancy life styles.

That whole conversion from one state to another is quite cool. Water that evaporates and then forms clouds and then becomes too dense (like harry potter fans?), and then comes down again as water. It is kinda like a metamorphosis but the changes are not that gawk inducing.

Oh yeah, gawk. That is my new favourite word of the day. Gawk. Of course, this new found love may have something to do with the documentary I saw on the shutting down of Gawker and how it all has to do with corporate control of the media. Perhaps.

That documentary was a bit of an eye opener though, more so because you see that the same thing has been happening here as well. It is not only about controlling information, but also controlling the way the information is presented. You got to spin the news correctly, you got to keep the powers that be happy, you got to make sure you don’t step on anybody’s toes.

Which is where the internet comes in. And sort of takes a dump on things.

Of course, you could argue that even the internet is being controlled and how it is just a handful of companies that make sure you don’t see anything they don’t want you to, and all that. Which is true, but I am sure that if you dig deep enough you will find everything and anything that they don’t want you to see. Pretty damn sure.

The question worth asking though is, does anyone actually want to do that.

Okay, once again, where are you going with this Kro? I don’t know. Why you asking me. It is not like I would be able to answer that question. Oh, really? Then who would know? I don’t know.

And once again that vulture scene from Jungle King plays in my mind.

What do you wanna do? I don’t know. What do you wanna do?

Were they there in that shit storm that was the remake? That fucking movie was more disappointing than erectile dysfunction on a bangy bangy date.

Speaking of which.

There was this textbook that used to describe how camels were so well adapted to the desert. Like hooves which did not sink in the sand (or something like that), and eyelashes that would protect them in sandstorms (so pretty also they look), and all that kind of shit. And there was also this one picture showing how useful they were, and how they provided milk and meat. And then the meat drawing was this nice, juicy looking peace of yummy. With a a camel standing right there, smiling benignly.

I think this post is all about what could have been.

Toodles.

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