Kill The Bird.

Years from now, i will look back at this post and wonder what the hell i was thinking. What the hell made me do it.  What the hell made me delete my twitter account?

It is a rhetorical question. The answer lies in the question itself. What the hell was i doing on twitter in the first place? A question for an answer, there you go. It was but a phase. A game. We all play it.  140 words to kill. Go. Fit a joke or bitch about your luxuriously boring life or come up with a witty line over a  local issue or football or whatever. Time starts now.  Used to be i waited for days just to come up with a pithy or witty line to share with my almost none-existent followers. And this is in the day where information flows faster than thought. 

I got bored of the game. It bored me because i became dependent on it. I stopped writing long rambling stuff as i slowly became addicted to the speed of the replies the likes and what-have you. I was addicted to it, like nicotine, like sugar, like whatever the hell floats your boat in a shitty day.

One can only maintain a number of addictions at any given time and so ruthlessly i nipped the addiction in the bud, long before it becomes cancerous. I knew that to be published, to be remembered i had to write at least 10,000 words a day and 10,000 attempts at a tweet does not count as writing. Twitter is cancerous to my writing muscle, at least it was for me.

Do i miss it now? i certainly did, like i will miss nicotine when i finally gave up my pipe or like i will miss sugary stuff when i finally go on a diet. Relapse? God help me, i hope not.

Sometimes a line a word which i think to be brilliant my first reaction would be to say to myself; that is tweet-worthy or , i should tweet that. But then i would catch myself midstream and to remind myself that my twitter account is dead and give the silly blue bird the finger.

I would then type it instead in my battered old Samsung S3 whose S Notes notes have the tendency to go missing even after i saved it a few time after which i would go berserk and after a few minutes, resign to the fact that brilliant line or word is now lost eternally to the Void .

Now, after the death of the bluebird, i find my days to be longer and more meaningful. Conversations, i mean good old fashioned conversations became an enjoyment for me albeit my introverted disposition. The lines? the witty and pithy lines? Now, i reserve them  for good old fashioned conversations with friends.

Death of the bluebird is a relief for me. Its like taking a long satisfying dump after holding it in for hours. Go on. Try it now. Kill your Twitter. It will liberate you.

your train is delayed, again.

Currently i am functioning at half of my full mental capacity. The funtioning half kept running by the combined effect of nicotine and caffeine (Ah blessed caffeine!). The non functioning half succumbed to sleep thus impairing my thought processes. Like when you board KTM commuter train, certain parts of the journey will be marked with sudden loss of power before the train powers back on again. Like that, my train of thoughts constantly slowed down when it passes through the sleeping part of my mental rail, or so it goes. The reason me still awake at this hour being an urgent striking out application which i had just remembered this morning ( this morning being Tuesday morning). It was due only on Thursday morning but one of the virtues of having clients you have difficulty of meeting is that chances are, come Thursday morning, his signature would still not be on the affidavit. i am talking legal gobledegook. I know. I probably should get some sleep, to maximise .. i forgot what i was about to say. Signing the affidavit, then theres the affirming to be done after the signing. Sometimes it made me wonder for the absurdity of having all these sworn statements. Its not as if the Commisioner of Oath even know whatever that was written is the truth and nothing but the truth. If the bugger wants to lie and lie he or she will, be it in writing or orally so help me God. Hell, chances are the poor Commissioner doesnt even know what he is actually stamping as the truth. Then again, what is the truth? Truth is Sleep is in negotiation with the still awake half of my brain for an instrument of surrender. I have fought honourably beyond all expectations, i may march out with my colours intact, fully armed with my honour untarnished. I have fought the good fight, its time to sleep now and fight again come tomorrow said Sleep. In a minute. Dear me. I have not updated this blog for some time now. Busy busy as bees trying to survive. Always feeding that queen Bill& Debt. Surely there is more to life than that. Theres sleep. And theres the srnse of accomplishment of a job well done. There is also what we call the ungrateful clients. Its a thankless job this is. You either a liar and a cheat or you are a cheat or a charlatan. All of a feather. Quack or cluck or whatever. Made me think why Shakespearehated lawyers so much. He probably got served with Judgement. Thou art served you little shit. Its a wonder i can still type all this up with half of my mind asleep. The analytical part is totally asleep so legal drafting is hopelessly out of the question. Creative side however, is having a field day. O blessed caffeine. I guess this is the state they call in between waking and sleeping. Perhaps we can call it waleeping. Or whatever. The state perfect for what writers call....ah.. shit i cant remember...something writing. Stream of consciousness writing. Thats it. There will be Hell to pay tomorrow. Oh yes. There will be Hell to pay tomorrow. Ok Sleep, where do i sign?