Sunday, 28 July 2013

Writer's Block 2


He couldn't write.

He couldn't write even in the middle of a deep still night or in the-almost-religious light of a Sunday morning. 

He couldn't write when he was happy or when he was sad or when he was both. 

He couldn't write in coffee shops or libraries or anywhere else for that matter. He couldn't write in his multi-coloured notebooks he had bought especially or even on the palm of his hand. 

He couldn't write even while on a great journey by train. 

He couldn't write even after he had intentionally made his personal life overly complex and hectic. 

Metaphors were faraway cities to him, personifications were like distant relatives that no longer came to visit.


His pen, he knew, felt nothing but silent contempt for him.



And then one day the writer gave up being a writer and immediately the words flowed and flowed...


Sunday, 21 July 2013

The Philosopher

'The good news is that there is an absolute reality' he said.
'The bad news is we can never know what it is.'

Saturday, 13 July 2013

On the Planet Zapoon



On the planet Zapoon people have three hands and when they are asked a tough question they sometimes reply 'On the one hand... on the other hand... and on the other, other hand...' 


Saturday, 6 July 2013

Botticelli's Venus


Botticelli's Venus feels peckish. 

Botticelli's Venus takes from the folds of her divine hair a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

Botticelli's Venus eats the crisps in High Renaissance fashion.

Botticelli's Venus finishes the crisps, licks her lips, crunches up the empty packet and throws it beautifully over her perfect shoulder into her shell which closes like the lid of a bin.

 

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