Backdoor Exit

Must write. Must write. Must write.
I feel guilty about creating a blog and not using it. I'm brimming with things to say. I always end up like a dried up river when i sit to write. Music always fills the spaces.
I'm surrounded by too much phoniness all of a sudden. Look. Listen. STOP. Breathe.
How can another post be about nothing, i think.
StickyKeys always turn up when i make a post out of pressing Shift too much, uneasily i wonder where does the sentence begin?
Ideas are never invented, only discovered. Stop asking me anything. I'm disgusted with all the trampling. Thoughts inspire each other yet seem disconnected.
Bhendi Bazaar has a mind of its own. Having survived over 200 years through the rule of the British, the partition of India, the 92 blasts, JJ flyover, it is now tired. "We will now have buildings that reach the sky, a shopkeeper gushes", i dryly wonder if he will recognize himself in the reflection of shiny glass facades. Over a thousand homes with spotless marble and billowing curtains inhabit unbelievably dilapidated structures. Will these homes and families re-develop too? Who makes bhendi bazaar what it is? Is extremity the only solution or is it my fear of Fascism that looks for in-between, intermediate recourse?
Im scared of my incapability, this city deserves something else, something i definitely cannot articulate.
Its the gray areas that disturb the most.







Funny:
Everything is always one notch above my threshold of tolerance.