Sod Off !

I hate you.

Every morning I make my way through corridors lined with people poring over page 3 celebrity gossip, walking in a line like little red ants, making plans to watch the movie next weekend, sending each other forwarded emails with pictures of manicured lawns and amusement parks. Ayurvedic spas and honeymoon destinations. Obedient little ants. How I wish you could see what you look like when you all line up in front of the coffee vending machine when the clock strikes 11, like monkeys in some space experiment. Globalifuckingsation. The triumph of the Mob over the Individual. The next great revolution of stupor and cerebral degradation. A world ruled by greedy swine. They are everywhere - in lobbies, in offices, in cities... At nights I see them coming out of every hole in the wall; hungry cockroaches pouring out of ventilator ducts and manhole covers, crawling out tin cans and crowding the streets, tripping and falling over one another as they try to climb up your legs, making it difficult to breathe. I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping.

Bloodshot eyes.

How many animals have to be slaughtered to keep you clothed and well fed? How much grains and starch, and animal carcasses and birds with their wings flapping, have to be flung into the furnace that is your metabolism? All to feed the enormous beast whose sole occupation is to stare dead ahead with a blank face and a mouth gaping wide open. I hope you meet them one day - the animals you tortured and murdered to appease your hunger. I hope they come back to haunt you in your afterlife. Your forwarded emails, little trinkets, junk beads and toy rifles. How your eyes light up when you see those little patterns of snakes and ladders, you sneaky little morons. Patterns that are simple and easy to remember. A mind obsessed with trivia. To me, you are the lowest form of life. A degree of survival that is lower than bacteria, rolling in slime, wading in putrefied sludge, unaware that the filth it is eating is its own. You are a slave. Of your life and your job and your career. You are nothing more than a common slave. Push a button, Get a treat and do your worthless bit for a multibillion dollar corporate cause you neither know nor understand. You are the worst kind of slave - one who doesn't even know he's a slave. And that's why no revolution can ever touch you; no act of defiance can ever ignite a spark in your catatonic mind, because you truly believe you are secure.

You disgusting, impeccable slaves!

You marry. You get a raise. You buy a house. This is your life. You will live in the one of the thousand featureless suburban colonies. This is all your sad life will ever amount to. I hope for your sake you die lying face down in a gutter somewhere, in a pool of blood and shattered teeth, choking on your own bile and vomit. I hope for your sake.

See you in hell.

(No more caffeine, I promise.)

Randomness

Whenever I visit a barber, no matter where, I am told to use hair conditioner. Dozens of hair-dressers over the years have told me that my hair is brittle and it needs conditioning. But you see, no matter what you say I am not going to use cosmetics. I don’t use hair conditioner for the same reason that kangaroos don’t read newspapers. How can I explain? If trees don't wear lipstick and polar bears don't use vaseline, what in God's name do I need a conditioner for?

It’s a funny thing - if you give a monkey a typewriter and a million years, it might be able to type out a manuscript of Henry VIII. Give it a tube of hair gel and it might figure out that it will make its hair sticky and stand on end, but it can’t for the love of god work out just what is to be gained by doing that to one’s hair and why anyone in the world would want to do it! So the hair gel is the hair conditioner, the laws of statistics and probability are the same and I am a monkey… See where I am going with this?

The Highwaystar

The scorching sun beats down on your shoulders and on the road, vapourising bitumen and making the road ahead and the hypnotising terrain look vaguely hazy. A blast of sand and black smoke hits your face as a truck speeds by. The blurry tarmac buzzing below the footrest is your only measure of speed. The wind blowing on your face brings tears to your eyes and dries your lips. Your head hums with the roar of the engine.

You see milestones rush past faster than you can count. Only then do you realise that the road and the terrain have entranced you so much and that you have grown so used to your bike's vibrations and noises that you are lulled into a dreamy, yet conscious sleep that your thought process has slowed down and your reactions are delayed, yet somehow strangely and deliciously in perfect harmony with the nature, the wind and the clouds.

On a subconscious plane, even when you are riding, you are sensitive to the fact that your motorcycle is your best friend, and that it will never get angry at you or shout at you or ignore you and ridicule you. You develop an almost human relationship with your motorcycle and care for it more than for yourself, at times.

Did you run out of fuel? There was definitely a momentary lapse now as the engine missed a beat, but it reassuringly surges back to life and keeps going. That was probably just the plug misfiring, or maybe a drop of condensation in the carburetor. Your mind dwells on this for a fraction of a second and then moves on... Or maybe the bike just voiced its protest in a way that only someone who truly understands his bike on a spiritual plane can comprehend.

The landscape is plain and devoid any striking features. Nothing seems to be moving in your vibrating rearview mirror, except the blurry horizon, which seems to be going further and further behind with every turn of the crankshaft. A piece of forged metal powers your bike and thoughts as you escape from the immediate past and apprehend about your distant future.

As you finally kill the engine and get off the motorcycle, the landscapes you saw are still playing again and again in your head and even if you close your eyes, you cannot shut it off. The engine isn’t running now, but your ears are ringing. This is going to take a while to wear off. The motorcycle still seems to be throbbing with life. Maybe its your imagination. But you hope its not...

The bike feels strangely peaceful and silent after hours and hours of spine shattering violence.

Your back is sore. Your hands are aching. Your palms are raw. Your eyes are red; your shirt is covered with grime and dust. So is your face. Your legs are cramped from too much riding and dehydration. Your backside is so numb you don't remember the last time you felt it alive. You are so exhausted you just want to crash and sleep for days on end. Yet, this is a feeling you would trade for nothing in the world, because you recognise it for what it is. You are filled with a feeling of tranquility and immense self satisfaction. You are filled with a sense of fulfillment that can only be compared to what you feel when you have reached a mountain top after hours of back breaking climb or when you have just finished listening to divine music. You are at peace with yourself and strangely detached from the rest of humanity.

You recognise it for what it is.

Motorcycling Nirvana.