This isn't a post - 7 (back to the stream of consciousness)

Fill the details correctly
life is a long application form
he once told me- no one loves old people. I want to tell him I am slowly getting there to the twilight of old age. But then age is just a number say the fools. Do they wear watches?

its dripping away second by second
every other picture of me looks like someone else
No one reads this, I am told
PUBLISH
I choose perish

Seek references
know preferences
ask, seek, achieve
no peace at all
Is worth a pay cheque? Is worth measured by love?

This finding yourself is only good for selling self-help books.
Why do I write?
because Bukowski doesn't let me sleep
because I made a promise to Eliot, Hemingway, Manto and Amrita Pritam

because the noises wouldn't stop
because schizophrenia is a possibility

only the mad ones are alive
the living ones are all compromised
for fame, money or the worst- LOVE

That was someone else
some other person who was ME then
some other space
she wore silver trinkets
loved the rain
and talked to diwali lights

forever is a lie
I type LO- for loneliness
autofill says LOVE.