Life is full of shit..

-Life altering pseudo-wisdom gained during a frenzied bout of dysentery



From the moment you’re born, till the moment you die, life will shit on you. Not just measly hand-brushable bird droppings, but often even huge rhino-sized lumpy dumps, sometimes just for the heck of it. Regardless of where you yourself shit, be it on the biting cold railway tracks or the marble floored pots and pans, life shits on us all, equally and generously. In fact sometimes this world seems like nothing more than a globular chamber pot for the One Above . Anyways, when one does feel that one is being shat upon, there are various things that one can do-

1) Keep on Stinkin’ – Keep wallowing in self-pity and shout out into your pillows how it’s all unfair that you keep getting drenched in God’s poop, until you slowly get used to the stink. Eventually you transform into the stink itself. Little little waxy gooey turds of ‘kismat’ that sit on the lines of your hands while you look around for the beast that you were excreted from for help.

2) Wipe if off – Like a good little nun, you wipe it off and move on, flushing the soaked toilet paper forever and thanking the lord god for…for whatever reason that seems appropriate at that particular moment (might vary from person to person).

3) Reason it out– You watch yourself listening to your brain tell you that shit is just processed food, conversion of energy, that sort of crap. You’re going to become fodder for the worms someday anyway, so it’s a good thing you’re getting a little practice beforehand in dealing with ammonia rich products. All this while your train of thought gradually shifts to the winds that will carry your awful scent to the millions of blinking eye like stars that adorn the huge black spider that you think the sky is. Then you fall, eyes unfocussed and saliva drooling off the edge of your hideously curved lower lip. Over- analysis # fail.

4) Understand the food chain – You go to the nearest Mc. Donald’s that you can lay your hands on. Order 2 Maharaja Macs, 3 Mc grills, 1 Mc puff and a Veg Surprise. Eat. Then you order an extra large coke and dump a whole packet of IsabGol laxatives that you bought on your way, into the coke and drink. Drink like you would an oasis in a scorching mustard desert. And then you wait. Feel the semi-solids mining their way through the lengths of your foodpipe into your stomach. Feel it wriggle and gurgle inside you. You wait for exactly 6 hours, the incubation period for a nice good humungous pile of crap. Feel the creation of life within you. The last two hours of the six will be the hardest. The labour pain. Endure. Wait for your child to come avenge you against all those who shat on you. In the last half hour, slowly make your way towards whatever shat on you or better still you may go find a new receiver to dump it on, carrying the food chain forward. As Michael Buffer would say, “Let’s get ready to ruuuuuuuummble.” In the last few seconds, they say you start dreaming of pearly white toilet seats, golden jets of sprinkling warm water and a heaviness in the bowels that only mothers in childbirth are said to experience. When that happens, you shit. The very moment you do it, you experience natural nirvana, a lightness that only angels with wings are supposed to feel. The dumping process is complete. You’re free.

Conclusion? – No matter what you do, life is still full of shit.

400

No, this is not a lame attempt at scripting a sequel to the Spartan epic- 300. Four hundred bucks is also not the amount of money I'm being paid to write this article. Ha! Far from it. 400 is merely an attempt to fit into the socially accepted norm of writing four hundred words in order to become a magazine’s column writer, as was told to me quite clearly by my editor when I submitted several articles ranging between the horrendously evil and despicable word limit of 600-1000 words.

Now I might have read accounts of many hot-looking women in the adult film industry talking about how 'size matters', but no, that is not the reason why I choose to write slightly longish and 'sizable' articles. It is merely because once you start writing from the heart (sorry for the cliche') you just don't think about word limits!

Imagine someone pointing towards his wrist-watch and snobbishly shaking his head in disagreement while Jimmy Page was playing the long yet heavenly ending to his 'Stairway to Heaven' solo. Now, of course I am in no way comparing my humanly skills to Page's Godly stature. Hell no! But I guess the fact that you are still reading this article, proves that you are smart enough to get the allegory.

The whole idea behind creative space is that, well, its creative! It should let you stretch your wings of imagination without you having to worry about ruffled feathers from walls closing in on you. Commercialization however dictates that the creative spaces be trimmed neatly, powdered greatly and packaged finally with little pink ribbons tied on top. Oo la la!

The very idea of someone monitoring creativity is appalling. It is like putting a kid in a transparent glass box to watch the skies, making him yearn to reach them, but never really letting him actualize that dream by blocking his path with the glass barriers. The very space which should be liberating, is acting like a cage itself. I am that kid, sitting in the glass box, looking at the sky, bumping my head against the glass again and again as I try to reach out.

The fact that I have had to trim down this article on 'the hazards of limiting creative spaces' itself to 400 words in order to get it published, should make irony itself roll over and die laughing.

Maybe it is time we broke the glass barriers, to soar out, breathe free and fly. Hammers anyone?