Too many complex tales weave together and give us an illusion of life. I have been witness to some of these gory stories. I have penned some of these narratives out of the unsavory depths of my own ribald imaginations. There is of course some merit in saying that these stories are more part of fiction than fact. For long, one of my favorite dialogues in this regard, had been that,  to distinguish between fiction and fact is one of the most common fallacies. 

There is a sense of urgency as I narrate these tales. This urgency is born into me because of the inherent floating nature of my life. You know how a boat floats and promenades around desultory borders. 

An unanchored novel......

"Anchorlessness- that was to be one of his chaotic concerns in that
uncertain year; battling a sense of waste was to be another. Another fodder
too, in the farrago of his mind, self-pity in an uncongenial clime, the
incertitude of his reactions to Madna, his job, and his inability to relate
to it - other abstractions too, his niche in the world, his future, the
elusive mocking nature of happiness, the possibility of its attainment."

-English,August

Soaked in sin (27 July 2001) (Song)
Its over seven years since I completely gave up writing poetry. I have just been writing stories, novels and scripts since then. I never really can point out and identify when and why did I get so overwhelmingly infatuated with poetry as a medium. It was recently that a lovely friend of mine requested that I write a song for her. Actually to be fair, she asked me did I have one ready, for a person who has not ventured in over 7 years, obviously I did not have anything ready. But all the same, the question inserted the seeds of a fixation within me, to try and dabble in poems and songs again, if not for any other reason, just to prove to my dear friend my versatility with all written matter (ego trip, don't you think so). This addition to the section is a result of that coition. If possible, don't hate me if you don't like it too much ;-))

The approaching chasm (11 August 2000) (Observational commentary)
This was a narrative I wrote after being inspired by a movie. Still don't know the name of the movie. Something violent about the whole visual memory gives me goose pimples even today. Personally I love the conversation between the two leading protagonists (must I call them antagonists...that would be jumping the gun.). They say every story is just a mashed edition of some facet of the author's life.... on one hand....I have this escapism which tells me that I should refute it.....on the other hand....hate to admit it.....this story is true....(fact vs. fallacy).

And the river flows (18 September 2000) (Observational commentary)
Most of my tales are so over the edge, so many of them speak nothing, other than the one point I want to speak about. Obsessive one-track narration, if I might say so. Though on the face of it, the whole tale looks so placid, there is something violent about it, just as most of my other tales. There is no specific reason for the title, but a metaphor for anguish and helplessness.....a flowing river symbolizes the rites of passage.

She finally spoke (16 January 2001) (Story)
I sent this story to one of the contests. Though the story and the idea was original and I really find it very creative of myself, I sometimes feel there is something unusually artificial about my writing style during this period. If you read some other pieces here, and then read this, the difference shall be apparent. I lost the competition, so now you know my real caliber, of course part time fucking never conceived a child. (I wonder in retrospect, why I speak this way, is it for the shock value...or is it something more sinister.)

Bottles of wine and sour grapes (January 1997) (Abstract)
Some of my older work. I really find some of them classy, way ahead of my age. I was 18 when I wrote this, there is a certain poetic brilliance about my work then, which makes me wonder...If I could turn back time.....sour grapes, I must say.

Ghost of you (April 1997) (Poem)
A set of two poems I wrote way back then. The times seem so very different, though it has not been more than half a decade. Somehow, my writing style was so much more terse, wordy and bombastic. Please don't hate me or my work for that, possibly every writer goes through these phases. Both poems are still very nice, thats all I wanted to say. 

And the warp continues.... (Jan 1996) (Abstract)
A bombastic piece, if I must honestly admit, but hey I wrote it way back then, and it part of the child's story. 

Confusion (Jan 1996) (Poem)
A small poem. A little bombastic.  The central idea of the poem is nice and different. 

Eyes (Jan 1996) (Poem)
Another small poem. 

The silent child (May 1996) (Abstract)
Another one from the child series. I never really know (actually I do know) why I chose the child as a symbol of all my abstract pieces. If I have to shamelessly admit, those were days of teenage truancy and misplaced zeal. All the same is, the piece is certainly a good abstract piece, and its almost like a poem which has been presented as a prose piece.