Subjectivity

It's easy to say that sight and sound have meaning, but it's the human mind that gives them meaning, not our senses. I listen to my mom's meditation video as she plays it on her speaker. The human mind and its many neutrons give a wild sense of meaning to every microcosm activity. Sometimes I see the wind blowing through the leaves of trees that grow in my garden. And I attach some meaning that it's mother nature fretting and whistling as she watches her loving son take a walk and bask in her beauty. I woke up today when a mosquito decided an ideal resting place after minutes of parasitic nourishment of my blood would be the ear of the person she drank from. Too bad, I was someone's last supper. There's a haze on my mind in the mornings when I see my phone dying because the alarm ate a chunk of its battery that it had to go off to prevent an explosion to the side of my head. I did not want to go to college. I told my mother so. She disagreed and said it was best that I went because she didn't want me to suffer through being on the defaulter list through another semester. This semester doesn't have one. Possibly the college decided its effect was down to none on any of the students and took a bite out of their social energy to remind people to attend college. I blame the principal. 

There was something criminally wrong but my decision to leave for college this morning, I went to the bus stop, without breakfast, got down at Platform 1 at Borivali, bought myself a ticket (I usually don't) then stood all the way to Vile Parle. My ass was in the face of someone who kept burping right onto it. And someone who slept the entire time with his face 2 inches away from my dick. He breathed on it. I believe there are far too many men who have been closer to my penis than any of the women I've been with. When I got down to Bandra, there was something mystic about how unscrupulously my mind decided that I have to take the bus instead of the regular on-off relationship with the sharing rickshaw driver that I'd been forced to maintain. The bus was full. I don't know why I climbed onto it. And I did regret it when I felt my phone being swiped off. There was no one beside me. For a moment I felt as though it'd slipped through my pocket. In the words of Anmol, "Bandra wale chakke hai, phone kon chori karta hain? Mera phone kholege toh sirf Pornhub milega." I laughed and then narrated as though I knew more than I did. He bunked one lecture with me and we played throwball. I called Kevin to college and then asked Aarush to drop me at the station. Kevin says he saw me double seating through the bus window. He said I'm a chutiya. My only excuse is my phone's been stolen.

To be very honest, I'm not really concerned about the theft. I ordered my new phone yesterday and the timing was considerably impeccable although I'd prefer I'd still have my phone. There's nothing on that SD card apart from my pre-pubescent antics and a considerable amount of pictures of my friends. I hope they wipe that memory card before it's put to any use. I feel as though when moments like this happen to me I begin to see myself subjectively as though I'm a fiction and the character this is happening to is concerned with the data on the device. I even wrote a scene without any dialogue in which the pickpocket sits at the bus stop and watches the bystanders. Like a fox. Looking for the easiest prey. I thought of a prompt about a pickpocket in Mumbai who likes to collect SD cards because tiny spaces that hold images are close to his heart. Lives he can only dream of having whilst being stuck in an unentertaining job of robbing mobile phones. He's a pervert yes. But also a romantic at heart. Romanticizing the lives from the memories of those he robs from. Finally, he's caught by someone who kills him because the real protagonist of the story has connections and there's some sensitive data important to the bad guys on that SD card. Framing the entire story from the perspective of the pickpocket. I'm subjective. Long live the pickpocket. So it goes.