Flashy Title That Catches You Attention: Asking to be Cyberbullyed

Yes. I did type you instead of your. I did that on purpose. People spot mistakes faster, HA! Clickbait.

Anyway, November is here. A day away from me. And so is NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month. And I have something to say about that:

  • Am I American? No. So should it not be InNoWriMo? International Novel Writing Month?
  • I know I haven’t announced my novel yet. I won’t. Probably won’t even be finished this month. So? Huh? How do you care?
  • I am ranting. I know. I am aware of this. So? You clicked on this. You’re in my domain now. I’ll do whatever I want. (technically I don’t own the domain, it belong’s to WordPress. So, go figure!)
  • I am probably going to write a lot about a story but not the entire thing. It’s just a method to force out my first draft. Just shush up. Shush. Don’t overreact on me trying to write a novel. Shush. Up.

Bringing light to the matter that I know that I am most probably not going to be able to finish all 50k words this month, I have taken a few decision. Here they are:

  • I don’t care if I am working on the NaNoWriMo project or not, I will be writing something. Something. That includes but is not limited to:
    • The erotica poetry project.
    • The second poetry project.
    • The third poetry project.
    • You get the idea, let’s move on.
    • The NaNoWriMo project.
    • This blog.
    • And work on the development of a book review blog.
    • The research papers I have not been working on.
  • I’m going to force out 3k words a day. I am not going to leave a room for most of the day all November. I can do 3k, okay? I have done 1800 in two hours. I’ll pull 3k in 24! Stop criticizing me already!
  • I meant what I said. I will do it.

Hopefully, by the end of this month, I am going to have Something. Something. Something.

Criticize me. I call it. Every day at 12, I will publish the status here. Word count too. During the day, you might find a blog here. If you do not, call me out. Criticize me. Cyberbully me. I call it.

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Rock, Metal and Hair

So a week ago, my beard and hair got fired from my job and I had to go get a haircut and shave off my mane.

A minute of silence for the deceased and departed. May they rest in peace, miss you forever. </3

But this is not about that. Before my boss asked me to go and get a hair cut, he told me a tale from his college days. “There was this guy, who was a lot into the metal scene at that time,” he told. “And I would always walk up to him and ask Bruh! I understand the head-banging part. But what I do not understand is the hair and beard. Can you give me a reason why you metalheads have to have long hair and a beard? And not even once could he tell me why he needs to have his hair grown. Get a hair cut.”

So I wept and wept about my hair, but in the back of my head the question had dug a hole, heated the mug and made some bricks and built itself a home. It was refusing to let go of my head. It demanded a proper answer and then only it would go, as he said. Which left me with no option at all but to find an appropriate answer. So being the thought experimenting scientist that I am, I began collecting my facts.

I first leaned towards the euphoric feeling one gets when they headbang with the hair long. I mean anyone who has ever had long hair, knows how it feels to headbang with long hair. It’s like an afterthought one has after a thrilling experience. For example, when you’d cliff dive the moment you make your first dive would be just an impulsive action, not a deliberate one and therefore after you have leaped from the cliff and you’re suspended in mid-air, your brain goes, “Holla holla holla! Did I actually do it?” and then the brain fact checks. Am I in the air? Check. Are you sure I have suspended myself mid-air? Yes. So you’re saying there is no, and I mean absolutely no ground beneath my whole essence? YES! And this point you feel a tingling in your entire body, searching for land anywhere, SOMEWHERE around itself. And then this happens:

“H@#$ S*$%! I actually did it! What the f@*& got to me!?!”

And I thought that this is why rockers and heavy metal fans have got long hair. But then I realized, that this is only partially true. Primarily because this does not explain the beard and also because there are all sorts of rockers. I mean look at Chris Motionless, from Motionless In White. He’s got short hair but is bald from the sides, making it weird bangs with mohawk-ish hair cut. And then there is Andrew Stockdale from Wolfmother. He has got a decent afro, just overgrown. And then there is Hayley Williams, from Paramore. She was a girl and had long hair and she cut them down. Amy Lee from Evanescence.

Wow. Amy Lee from Evanescence.

Sorry, got lost in my thoughts there. But she is pretty normal. Normal hair. What’s with rock/metal and hair/beard?

Then, I came up with an explanation which fits. Which fills all the holes and builds all the bridges and it is pretty simple. For this one has to go back to the roots of rock and metal. The answer lays at the very foundation of rock/metal. The answer is the same as a band called itself The Sex Pistols and went up on the stage of a completely booked tour only for the singer to pick up the mic and say “F*** Y**,” (Yeah that’s true. They didn’t even bother about their fans. They left them and didn’t sing a single song.) The answer is the same as you find metalheads with tattoos. The same as the metalheads with piercing which have now enlarged themselves to stretching and enlargement of them. The same as Amy Lee dressing up as a Goth with heavy makeup as if she was a person with no sleep at all.

Rebellion. The reason why rock exists is rebellion and rebellion are what rock stands for. When the world adjusted itself to the loud rock music, we evolved to metal and then to metalcore. Then we screamed lyrics about death and made it deathcore. Just because, we don’t care. Just because you cannot control me or my thoughts. Just because I will do what I want. Just because society’s rules aren’t correct and I’d like to make a statement that I am not ruled by them. Just because I accept that I am weird and creepy and I embrace the fact.

What’s the easiest way to embrace this rebellion as a religion?

Tattoos? They’re costly. Piercings? Time-consuming. Hear my music out loud? We already do that! Do my makeup? It involves skill and efforts.

Grow my hair.

Think about it.

The Aroma Of Self-Cooked Meals

Now that I can finally say it out loud, here is a tiny-little change in my life. An itsy-bitsy change. I am now living alone, in a flat, where everything is done, managed, arranged by me. (Tiny change.)

I was never one to socialize. Ever. So the silence in the flat is like music to my ears. The solitude is comforting as humans make me anxious. The noises around me are just the ones in my head and I am loving every second of it. But my taoist soul knows that to every yang there is bound to be a yin.

The silence is a double-edged sword, it makes me queiter too. And one of the things which I really really miss, is the excuse to laugh.

When we are surrounded by humans, we find out reasons to smile or to laugh so frequently that we tend to ignore about them. The opportunity to smile loses the face value that it holds the more and more it is shared. While being on the same page, I finally realize how much I love to laugh, despite being accepting and embracing of the fact that I have a goth side that tends to come out so often that we cannot say that it “comes out”. And now I was living my life, in silence.

Until recently, there has been a tiffin service that I was reaping the benefits of and just two days back, I got my gas stove. So I can finally cook my own meals, more on that some other day.  I am not a chef. Hell, I am not even a cook! I have been preparing meals for me before this solitude too sometimes, but that was entirely different.  So when I cooked my entire meal for the first time yesterday afternoon, I came to a realization which strengthen over the 3 more meals  I made after that.

When I chop my vegetables, I often hum a tune alien to me. When I am using the rolling pin, I am almost always smiling. And when the veggies finally hit the flavored, crackling oil, and the aroma of food cooked by my own hands, hits my head and takes me to the meals my mother makes; I laugh out loud for two entire minutes.

There is something about cooking food that is so entertaining! You know what I mean? Something so powerful that it drives me to places unimaginable. The aroma of freshly cooked food has for the last couple of days has amused me so much that I secretly look forward to cooking.

Just to have my nostril drive my thoughts to home and the meals that my mother cook, which is now the only thing I call food.

With love,

Adwitiya

Recycling, Reusing and Repurposing

Nostalgia. I remember when I was in school, a few days before the seeming freedom a friend of mine dropped all his friends a text. A few days before the final exam, the message read, “Coming to School tomorrow?” And in that instant, the reality of the situation hit our bellies like a wrecking ball. The bittersweet aftertaste, matured for 12 years had finally indeed hit our heads. Intoxicating us.

Today as I write this seemingly absurd contemplation, I am reminded of the same. Nostalgia.

Nostalgia for the blog I began and reshaped so many times. Nostalgia for the similar yet ever evolving *tap-tap-tap* of the keyboards I have used. Nostalgia for the flat that I am in. Where I shall be in sweet solitude for . . , let’s say, a while now. Nostalgia for my parents, with whom I lived for so long! And nostalgia for myself and what has become of me.

I can’t write a lot as of now. I have to pick the minds of the greatest weavers of the history. (Much more than you have you eat mine!) But all that I can say right now is, I am recycling this. I am going to reuse this website.
And this will be repurposed, yet again.

For at this very moment, on the 5th of July 2017, 2:51 am I sit half-naked, under a fan in a nearly empty flat. Feeling nostalgic and cathartic.

But at this moment the tonic is not matured for 12 years, but 20.

To your good health!
Adwitiya

Why Did I Stop Blogging and Scraped My Book Project?

So this has not been “officially” said, but I guess it’s a pretty obvious fact at this point that: 

  1. I have stopped blogging here at adwitiyadixit.wordpress.com and
  2. I have scraped the blog stories compilation book, “This Book Ate My Homework!”. Or at least temporarily suspended it.

And yes, today I accept both of the accusations and say that the rumors have been true. Let’s begin with why This Book Ate My Homework! has been suspended.

I began writing in a very casual manner. When I began writing, I was just bored and as I have always toyed with the idea of writing, I jumped on it. My stories very goofy and then, like every other teen, I went through a sappy phase and wrote ridiculously sappy stories.

I love them. And I know that a few of the readers and my friends and family love them too. But when I began compiling them and editing them, I realized that even though people who know me will enjoy it, people who don’t know me or have never transitioned with this blog will laugh and shoo me away as a naive or casual writer. 

The truth is that I take my stories a seriously and I also take my writing seriously. I just don’t want my work to be the reason why people don’t take me seriously. So at least temporarily, I have stopped any form of work on our blogs compilation book even though 30% of the book has made it through the second draft.

Now the elephant in the room. Why am I not blogging here? Why am I blogging on EtchedSecrets.Wordpress.com ? If I have a huge base here and I have published poems here before too, why not use this blog only?

Well… This blog is pretty much dead. I have had some great memories with this blog but the truth be told, it never performed. I know that the fault is majorly mine but the fault has also been on the other end. The traffic is not returning and somehow any efforts to resurrect this is not working. I began “When They Met…” with a lot of hopes but the failure of a baby project was too much. The first story that I wrote in the segment received ZERO views. That was just a bit too much to bear and I haven’t had the heart to write here again. 

Is that the end of this blog?

No. I have projects for this blog. I am even thinking of turning this into a personal website. Like an author’s website. But temporarily, this blog will not have any form of new content here. If you guys would like, I will post the poems from EtchedSecrets here too.

So am I temporarily ceasing to write? 

Not at all. I have a few surprises for you. My current work in progress is Withdrawal Effects. What happens when the strongest drug in the world, love, withdraws? It’s a novella. The largest piece I ever worked on. I have prepared a preliminary draft for it and after my exams I will be working on it. And also a project on which I have been sitting on for nearly two years! Dead Ravens. I can’t tell you a lot about these right now but soon you’ll have them.

So that’s about it for now. Let me know down below if you want to read my poems here too. And if you want me to revive this blog, then too leave a comment here.

Till then, take care.

So long.

Adios.

– Adwitiya R Dixit

Excuse me …

Rosaline has been sitting at the table with her friends for more than an hour now. Laughing and sharing stories with her friends. It was the birthday of Sarah, her best friend and this was her treat, despite the fact that Sarah had already thrown a party. This was how she was though. Segregation was her habit and she felt that it was necessary to classify her friends as well by giving her “friends” a party and her “special friends” a treat afterward the party in the café for a coffee. But to be honest, Rosaline was never like this.

For her things has always been simple. It’s either a friend or not. She was never one to judge others or even classify them as a “special friends” and “friends”. She always found joy in the simplicity of her relationships and cherished every person the same. That was how Rosaline was. Despite the fact that Sarah was so judgemental, Rosaline was still her friend and I guess that is what the old lore of “Opposites Attract” is all about.

Rosaline was sitting right next to her best friend, who so strikingly opposite to her that people often wondered how are they even friends. Sarah was plump and stout and Rosaline was tall and thin. Sarah was the strange one, with her baritone voice and all floral and bright clothing whereas Rosaline was the one with a feeble voice and darker clothing. They were the Laurel and Hardy of the school, just blown up to an excessively large level. And here they were. Sarah drinking her Americano and Rosaline already high and buzzing on her espresso.

Rosaline was lost in her laughter, induced by a joke a friend of Sarah cracked when she felt a tap on her shoulder. The group at once fell silent and when she recovered herself and recollected her senses, she saw that even the smirk of some of the people around the desk has been wiped off.

She turned to find a boy, maybe a little over her age with his hair a tad too long for him to carry properly, His hair seemed as if they had all the freedom in the world and yet like an undisciplined class trying to not make a sound at the arrival of a teacher, his hair seemed to be fixed in a hurry. His eyes were black and his blue jeans were dirty. He wore a black sweatshirt and matching canvas shoes.

“Excuse me,” he said to her and she could feel the tension rising in the air.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I did not mean to irrupt you and your friends here and I am really sorry for that but I just entered the cafe and I could not stop me from coming over here and telling you something which I think that you should be aware of and you clearly are not. You see I would not have disturbed you but I couldn’t help but notice that Julia Roberts looks exactly like you” he said in a single breath and acted as if nothing happened. He stood there and looked at her with an expectant expression but she did not know what he wanted. And in confusion and irritation, she turned to Sarah.

“Do I look anywhere near like Julia Roberts?” she asked but before Sarah could reply, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry but you look like yourself. She looks like you. People will always say to you the other way around but the truth, in fact, is what I just said. Can I have a cup of coffee with you?”

Sarah might have judged him. She might have shouted at him or ridiculed him. She might even have used her pepper spray or called the security. But there was something about that boy that made her feel, weird! Something peculiar. Something which was his own. Unique. Unprecedented. And while Sarah would not have gone for a coffee with him, she found herself collecting her things and leaving her things.

P.s. Happy Valentines Day.

The Lunch Break

Leandre was your average joe, with average qualities and an average life. An average job. Average wage. I need not continue about his life right, you get the picture. Leandre was the guy currently running inside a diner in the afternoon with his sleeves rolled till his elbows, half his shirt peeking out his trousers and his laces undone. His blond hair a mess and dripping. A messenger side bag hanging at his hips, carelessly thrown across his shoulder. A pen held between his lips and sheets of paper in his hands marked red and blue in places.

Leandre rushed inside the diner and sat at the nearest empty table he could lay his eyes on. He wrote frantically with his right hand and rose his left hand in the air as if he was the studious student of the class who had just a single minute till the end of the period and he wanted to make a note of what the professor was saying and ask a question in that one tiny minute. His hour-long lunch break was again bound to pass with him working and drinking a ton of coffee and his stomach empty. A waitress soon attended him, though, much to his comfort.

“What can I do” she began but was cut short by his smooth and unabused voice.

“I need a Cappuccino. Please. Quick. Thank you.” said he with his eyes never leaving the paper. The only difference was that before he had his hand in the air and right now, they were in his hair.

Mumbling figures under his breath and crunching figures in his head, he felt his stomach grumble and revolt. His stomach clearly threatened him to file a case against him in the labor court and like a perfect boss he looked for the waitress to ask for his coffee again. He called her and went back to his work.

“Please,” he said. “Save my life. Cappuccino. Hurry.”

His mind was well trained to look past all the distractions and troubles. He had trained himself to be void of all emotion. He was no longer irritated by the loud speaking and verbal diarrhea-suffering co-worker. He was well trained to look past the construction noises and into his hieroglyphics worksheets. But when another couple of minutes passed and his coffee was nowhere to be found, he lost it. He lost control over himself and he couldn’t control his anger. His anger aimed at himself that he got himself in at work released at the poor waitress. His frustrations released themselves as a river breaks the dam built on her and escapes.

He quietly capped his pen. And waited for the waitress to pass him by, like a rattlesnake waiting for his prey to come near him. And when she did, he pounced. He stood up and look at her in the eyes and raised his voice and said, “MY COFFEE!”

The coffee shop came to a stand still and everyone turned around to look at him. The sound of his voice sent something breaking inside of him. It broke his current state and he noticed that the poor waitress was shivering. Her eyes were brimming with tears and she was scared. Unable to apologize for his actions, he turned to the table and picked up his papers in preparation to walk out of the store. But then, the magic happened.

“Stay here,” a feminine voice said to the waitress and pulled at his elbow; forcing him to turn around and face her. Her circular face with her cheeks puffy, a tiny girl stood in front of the man who was finding it hard to find his words. Her black hair were neatly tied in a bun but a few strands had broken free from the restraints and were caressing her cheek on the right side of her face. She wore a pink chapstick in the name of makeup and her cheeks were red. Wait. Flushed red, in anger.

“What is your problem, sir?” she asked clearly angry. “Can you not see this is a busy day and we have other customers to attend to as well?”

“But…”

“But what? You cannot wait for your coffee? Even if you cannot wait for you fix of caffeine, you could at least be gentle about being rude. Was it necessary to shout on the top of your lungs?” she screamed at him. Which flushed her face a deeper shade of crimson.

“I.. I. I’m sorry.” he said his head hung down.

That cooled her down but still it was not enough to bring her comfort. Her face was starting to lose the recently acquired flush but her gaze was still cold. “You say that to the other girl Mister.And no coffee for you.” she said and walked away.

“Thank you Louna” the other waitress whispered to the girl as she went back to the kitchen.

As Leandre walked out of the coffee shop, the shop filled with applause for the girl who stood up. Strong and confident. And Leandre found himself daydreaming of Louna ever since.