URBAN NAXAL (noun)
Leftist intellectual terrorists.
Coined by Vivek Agnihotri in his book Urban Naxals: The Making of Buddha in a Traffic Jam
"Too weird to live, too rare to die!"
March 2024 #1
An Excerpt:
As time passes and more people you meet you must remember something. Your choices matter, they better be good and you can't take them back dickwad. "No Apologies"
March 2024 #2
A random thought crosses my mind sometimes.
I seem to miss a certain kind of sadness, maybe it's my masochistic side speaking but it's probably something more. I retrospect those times seem quaint. In the sense that you knew that things will turn out alright. The scariest part of living in the present is that you'll never know how things will turn out, which seems pretty self explanatary but it's easier to just reminesce. Living in the past is something many feel trapped by, missing when things seemed to simpler but that is not always the case. Nostalgia is a hard drug just make you don't get addicted. Life always and will suck ass you need to get over it, you just tend to think it was easier through rose tinted glasses and the power of retrospection
Jan 2025 #1
For all my life I've been running and I don't know what to. I always thought it was some tangible attanable goal like the bog standard 401k retirement but now I know it was to this place, at this time, standing over this shore. For all my life I was running, running from my problems. When my mother died, I was afraid and I was lost. I ran and never looked back. Ended up in some foreign land with a dead end job. Got a woman and tried living life the best I could, although a younger me would spit at the thought of it. I started to see alot of myself in my father. Much like him, someone disconnected from his fellow man. I never much worth in forming proper connections with others, though there were exceptions. I look upon this familiar night sky, I'm home again. The black waves flow like a smooth satin sheet spread across a vast horizon. I take another one from the pack and let the old familiar scent hit my nostrils, the lit tip resembles an olympic torch.
The blazes flutter like fireflies as the ashes pile up on the wet pavement, reminds me of the aftermath of a funeral. I remember my first smoke. The midday sun was shining bright, fishermen were checking their nets. I was dealing with some heartache, the first one made me quesy and I obviously looked out of place. Sat beside me in the shade was an old man, he asked if it was my first time, I lied of course and he saw right through me.
The waves crash upon the jagged rock that stuck out like cancer. The taste of iron coats the roof of my mouth as I take the last one out of the pack. I inhale while taking in the starry night, each of those twinkling lights representing a thousand choices never made. "This is good."