Bøker av Adhish Gupta

Mr. Bootyhole hung a photo frame overthe wall, andcame home to find it shattered. He did not know whom or what to blame: the weight of the body of the frame;the tree it was cut from;the mud the sapling was planted in;the high definition of the picture;the printer which took forth the job of printing it;the glass embedded within;the improper making of the bricks-included, but not limited to the furnacethey were baked in, the manager, and the one whogave them shape;the frailty of the nail which held it in place;the weak blows of the hammer;its slippery grip;the paint on the wall;the humidity of the room;global warming;the lightbulb over the frame;its filament;the electricity wires running in the walls;the wind;or his own incompetence. All he knew was that he needed tofind a broom, beforehis cat injured her paws.

A poet writes, to be able to rememberthat there lies an unfinished poemon his desk, waiting to be completed, as he sits on his pot, taking a shit;a poet writes so that he can bear theweight of food, crashing against his oesophagus;a poet writes to be able togather the strength, to walk down thedoctor's corridor, for a prostrate exam;a poet writes to be able to open ajar of pickles;a poet writes so that he can strollin the park, and pick up leaves, knowingthat it is his job to do so;a poet writes to be able to fuck;a poet writes to be able to guide his glassof whiskey, all the way to his mouth, andgulp it all down knowing thathe would only be able to work better;a poet writes to be able to make a pileout of the empty lighters he is soexhausted to refill;a poet writes to be able to afford apacket of ramen;and his gastritis medications;and his melatonin strips;and his Vitamin B's;and his apples;and his condoms;and his electrolytes;the rest is useless.A poet writes so that he is able tostand above the body of thecockroach he had squashed under his feet, knowing that he has the power toimmortalise death;and to have the courage to get aroot canal treatment; and also, acyst removal;a poet writes to be able to read;and to be able tosleep; and digest; and yawn; andstretch; and sneeze; andclip his toenails; and blink;and piss; and meditate; but mostimportantly, a poet writes, to be able to breathe.And there is no one who can change t

While reading this book, you might find a lot of opinions and thoughts that might clash with one another, sometimes within the same cluster itself, but that is just the manner in which I intended to write them. Cognitive dissonance, inner conflicts, absurd paradoxes, poetic oxymorons, inconsistencies, and most importantly the concept of Orwell's 'doublethink' dictated my life while I wrote most of these, and hence the clash. To try and explain the patterns and the wordings, would be quite a futile effort on my behalf, and an unfathomable experience for you. It's better to leave alone what is written to be felt.