My Coffee, mine alone.

This is something different. A cup of coffee, I mean. It reminds me of some funny things. Funny, did I say?

Take that trump for instance. Smiling at me from the wall. I can’t escape the sadness of his eyes. They are almost like the stretch of a lonely ocean, beneath the contempt of regular sunshine. Shades within our little box, part of our everyday grass and concrete. That’s my coffee, thank you.

See that dirty lane, just between the two roads? That’s desolation row for many of us. It’s somewhere in the middle of deliberate choice-domains, a zone of counter-culture that defies the two-faced basilisk of everyday routine. At times, I try to steal a glance of a lonely violin-player, and his shadow, to attune myself to the orchestra of light and darkness. That’s coffee for me, you know.

A little girl on her granny’s lap. Pearldrops. Trains and their glaring lights piercing the vision of innocence. She is nowhere to be found among the garbage and the flowers, even after all these years of randomness. Still, how I wish to travel blind! The sun pours down like honey, and I wish I could stir it into my cup of coffee. It’s been my longing for aeons.

"There's no success like failure"

Utopia is something out of our reality, yet not very far from the boundaries of possible interaction. It is actually the dream that either co-exists with everyday reality, or perceived as the signifier of our future, in terms of probability. It is the plane within our realisation of the conditions of life, as well as social aspiration. Even at its most complex and varied form, all is not one, as Elizabethans would have said.

Talking of utopia, it is interesting to note the class character and history of the same in Bengali culture. From being one of the many cultural identities in Middle Ages, gradual influence of colonisation and its after-effect, the nature of utopia has, indeed, passed through a pattern of striking designs. It would be of great interest to note the changes it has made to the utopian concept. Unfortunately, I have not come across any major work of this kind, and being a non-scholar does not help. It would be best if I try my best from the view-point of a failed journalist. Of course, with my due reverence to the holiest of scholars.

As I am writing this, my famed indolence is catching up with my typing speed, this is going to be another failure in the handbook of the failed journalist.

Some things do not change, just like the predictable anti-climax of my zigzag existence!

See you later.