Where are you supposed to be? Where are you supposed to go?
This is some combination of my in-progress pieces of writing. Arranged with some other thoughts I'm having. Some of these things I'll finish soon, some are parts of longer projects which won't be seen for years, and some may or may not be abandoned.
But the point of doing this is mainly this: Everything feels disjointed. All my thoughts are scattered. Writing requires putting letters into structures, putting words into structures, putting sentences into structures. The structuring is difficult right now. Possibly because I hit my head recently and the world is being the world and life is being life. But yeah, the writing is all an attempt to join the disjointed, but it's extra difficult now, so… new format. Let's see the scattered pieces actually being scattered.
This ‘someone’. This ‘someone’ was never really here, never present at any point in time or space, but it’s just clearer these days. Because one thing ended: one layer of suffocation, one single plastic bag taken off of a face wrapped around and around and around with saran wrap, fragments of disposable plates, one layer taken off. He’s itching to take off the rest of it too. One phase of life ended, and another began, and believe me, believe him, believe us! A chokehold is a chokehold, but when it’s just slightly loosened — what a heavenly difference! The air comes into his lungs so much more freely than before, and it’s barely anything. His face is still blue, but a little less so than before. And you can just barely make out his smile. He’s happy. He’s happy at this little bit of progress.
(Puddle of Warm Sweat — flash fiction)
Being alive is difficult.
But I cannot understand the cause of all this. It appears that these symptoms started soon after I started talking to a particular person who sits and draws in a notebook near the hydroponics. I was curious about what she was doing and now I like seeing her, listening to her, and being seen and listened to by her. I also like many other people who talk to me and act friendly. However, interactions with this individual cause the symptoms detailed above to spike. In spite of the uncomfortable symptoms, I am more compelled to talk to her and be around her and know everything about her. Strangely, I have the sense that it is changing me for the better, but I don't know how.
(!! ANNOUNCEMENT !! MINOR MALFUNCTION IN CYBORG! — flash fiction)
Being a person is difficult. I like robot characters. I like non-human characters trying to find their place as people. I like acknowledgement of the fact that being a person is hard and finding your place is difficult and being as ‘person’ as other people is difficult due to [insert so-and-so abnormalities]. I like Aigis from Persona 3. I also started something new with someone new who’s pretty great and way less doomery than me, way more optimistic.
Like Cures Like: My 'Brilliant' Thesis for Why I Need To Be Punched In The Face Posthaste is just the name of a flash fiction (set in the Great South Asian Rip in Reality) which I wanted to share. Not any excerpts, since I’d have to explain those quite a bit (very lore-heavy), but just the name.
Also, I do notice that, by writing this post, I am structuring the scattered thoughts. Again. But hey, all scatterings have a secret structure to them. A structure determined by rules which are hard to see, hard to understand, and maybe so subtle that we'd forget about them. People work on so many 'natural laws'. So I'd guess our thoughts are steered strangely too, as a result. Also, this is a much looser structure than usual. Because it’s just difficult. And I’m hoping that whoever reads this can derive some type of meaning in the sequences. I like the idea that shifting around the sequence of thoughts can change how you think about them (see my 1st flash fiction of May 2025).
No one sees your dreams. When you're in a dream, you do not matter. Nothing matters. Not unless you dig for some type of meaning. And you know what? I've tried digging for meaning before, and it's not worth it.
(Write like no one's reading. Because they're not. — flash fiction)
In the flash fiction it’s going to be a POSITIVE sort of, “who gives a fuck”, where you’re untethered and floating, but it’s also not positive, but regardless it’s a vibe.
A very important aspect of the study of moh-maya includes the distinction between reality and fiction, which can often be difficult because some realities are so ridiculous and some fictions so comforting, or so favourable to whatever it is you already believe. Sometimes I think we should stop trying, but there's already enough people who have stopped. So there’s no choice. Especially now, when it’s so malleable you can hold it in your hands, literally shaping it the same way a child would play with clay.
(Welcome To The Real World — serialized novel)
Worldbuilding but also commentary I suppose.
I say, “The personification of delirium is this really, uh, really beautiful woman.” And she gives good head.
“Huh? I saw her, and her hair was matted, her clothes didn't really fit properly, there were stains and tears on them, her eyes looked really…” He shudders. “I don't know, she scares me.”
“Yeah, and she's beautiful.” And gives great head.
(Welcome To The Real World — serialized novel)
Listen, I just thought this one would be funny to put in the middle of all of this and frankly this whole thing reads at least a LITTLE bit delirious anyway, so clearly this excerpt fits. That and I’ll actually get to experience head in June (gay head; happy pride month).
I admit I have felt some resentment about my construction in the past. A metal frame with organic material grown on it — my body moves in ways which . . . . .. It is in an uncanny valley region. I often envy AINA, as she is fully robotic.
(!! ANNOUNCEMENT !! MINOR MALFUNCTION IN CYBORG! — flash fiction. This snippet is EXTRA-incomplete. )
There is an envious rat lying dead at the bottom of my mug, and it gazes at itself from up above.
(It’s very simple — flash fiction)
“Love you down to the bone.” Like, me? Me specifically? No fucking way. You're lying.
(Stupid fucking Levi jeans commercial — flash fiction)
I genuinely found that fucking Levi jeans commercial oddly irritating. Lovely singing but the lyrics went like, “Know you wish you were my Levi jeans, love you down to the bone” and it showed up on YouTube mobile a few times (I have adblock on my laptop browser) and I found that so extremely irritating. Lovely vocals! Genuinely lovely singing! Something about the lyrics was just incredibly, “Fuck you”, and I started writing the flash fiction in October 2024, and I haven’t seen that ad in a while. I last worked on it in November. But thinking about it is ACTUALLY PISSING ME OFF again. It’s fun, it’s amazing, it’s fascinating. I love you Levi jeans ad, and fuck you severely.
I miss feeling the fog eat my face.
(Welcome To The Real World — serialized novel)
Delhi winters. I don’t miss much about Delhi, but going outside during winter at 1 AM (or 7 AM, while waking up) and the fog giving you love bites…
But now! All the things you can do with a face! Speak and sing and kiss– there was someone, I had someone before the sky took my face, and she promised to stick with me. Back then, no one manufactured new faces, and so we weren’t sure if I would ever have a face again. But she still promised to stick with me. Many people plucked their old faces from the sky, but I think mine went somewhere too high. We promised to keep talking to each other, and she’d kiss me even if I couldn’t kiss her back. She even tried to find out where my old face was in the sky, among the clusters of dozens of other faces. She started going to the telescope on that tower nearby just so she could look for it. Every night, for three weeks. And when she finally found it, she told me how long she spent staring at it. Just staring. Couldn’t tear her eyes away.
(You can do a LOT with a face — flash fiction)
Loneliness and the type of pain which other people are inflicting upon you but not voluntarily, can’t blame them. The narrator of this snippet is going to be a shopkeeper in the game I’m making. That happens after this flash fiction it’s his backstory. He gets to be happy then. He can still feel the fog love bites, by the way. The game is called 29 Days of Fog. The fog there is a sentient being, actually, I forgot that fact while I made the love bites comment. That fog has cavities within it. Some of the cavities are safe from monsters and its eyes can be seen in there too.
TIME BOMB: My problem is I have no hope, and I am completely happy about it. They cut the head off the iron maiden and made me wear it and walk around in it and I was happy and now I am a bomb, do you understand?
BOMB DEFUSER: (nodding profusely) Yes, yes, I do.
(Living Ticking Time Bomb That Never Goes Off — short story)
These pieces which are formatted like scripts of a play are pretty fun. For example, there’s Dark green / desaturated green / musty fungal green. It’s a shorter one, though. The others of this format are longer, though, so they’re also harder to complete. But if I complete ONE of these longer script ones, I’ll be able to complete the rest too. Will get to them later in the queue, though. Sometimes you’re about to explode and implode and explode and explode and it’s chill.
TWITCHING GRIN: Kindly stop moving and talking. It pollutes the air.
HORRIFIC PAIN: What’s wrong with me speaking? I can’t stop, I want to but I can’t, so what’s wrong with it?
TWITCHING GRIN: (quiet, speaking under his breath) I should stop moving and talking as well. It pollutes the air when I do it, too. But I can’t stop either. So what’s wrong with it, what’s wrong…
There is silence as TWITCHING GRIN stares ahead at the wall, holding the knife against the counter. HORRIFIC PAIN is still attempting to be still, but has started tapping his foot. Involuntary. He stops periodically, but it’s just a few seconds till the tapping starts again.
YOU: You're both making one mistake in your reasoning.
TWITCHING GRIN: (raising his cleaver) SHUT THE FUCK UP!
YOU shut the fuck up.
(I'm going to eat your pelvic bone and there's nothing you can do to stop me — short story)
This one’s going to have a 2nd part too because HORRIFIC PAIN has a legal case against him for the crime of existing and the 2nd part will deal with that.
And these chappals are NOT good enough for this weather. I blame it on the ad. I just couldn't stop thinking about it and then I wore my chappals instead of shoes. Even though it rained. I can’t remember anything properly anymore. Nothing, nothing at all, nothing! I blame it all on the stupid goddamn ad, if it didn’t consume my mind all day! False promises, manipulation attempts for the sake of consumerism, fuck you!
(Stupid fucking Levi jeans commercial — flash fiction)
It started raining in Mumbai. I got a walking stick so it would be easier to walk and live because it hurts 24/7, and hurts even more with the roads being more difficult to to walk on. The stick is great, I’m in way less pain while walking. I had forgotten what it was like to walk to places without needing to summon huge, huge amounts of willpower for the sake of coping with the pain. No, still no clue what the fuck the problem is. Maybe I’ll attempt the headache of seeing doctors about it some day again and seeing if they yet again say, “yeahh… who knows… stress, maybe” (note: does not decrease with less stress, doesn’t increase with more stress, only really gets worse with physical use, I do distract myself from it but that only temporarily helps and then eventually the pain overrides the distractions). Painkillers work decently. Problem with walking was: my right leg has the problem, so my left leg had to take its weight, but then that started hurting because of the excess weight, so… stick to help out. The right leg will probably hurt forever I guess. Oh well.
Life’s going good otherwise. Screws loose and fell out, college is awesome, I’m having a great time and job prospects oh god oh fuck, it’ll be chill! It’ll be chill. It’s awesome!