I am jack's tormented heart

Taught to behave, but born to stun. Taught to study but born to learn. Decency became relative, The most decent people he met were the ones he didn't even know. The most decent people were in the mosh pit. Bodies against bodies, kicking and thrashing, breath turned to dust, dust to breath. Living the riffs, living the beats. A brethren of unknown names. And it didn't matter. They were bonded by something far more greater than the niceties of the society. They were bonded by the fact that all of them felt truly alive at only one place. That one place.

Being a bookaholic, we come across many different writers and every one of them is a universe in themselves. To be lived in and to be explored of. But you cannot help but fall in love with one of them way too much. This universe might be anything from being serene to being cocky and shit. For me, its Bukowski. Heinrich Karl Bukowski, the German-born American, is a badass and wouldn't mind being called one. His straight forwardness and honesty, both in his life and priceless masterpieces, teaches us something that he had no intention of teaching. In all probabilities, he wouldn't care a time about preaching. His sense of freedom, and of happiness, are probably the purest forms of these nouns to have ever lived upon the soil. From spending his life switching through low paying jobs and always skimming that layer of poverty, to having a huge posthumous following, Bukowski's life has been the greatest book that would ever be authored by the legend. To everyone

Before the sun broke the still, Before the moonlight glanced away, Before the day's clanging broke through My silent vigil I had to capture you the way you were The innocent small face, And the dancing eyes, now closed A comfortable smile curled over that small face, A contented smile You always asked me why I'm never contented, never satisfied. Now, on this couch by the fire, looking at you, I am. But you'll never see me contented, and it will always be so, the absent critical lover and his mayflower. I did not go around to get my SLR, for i feared losing that moment, that body in the fading moonlight. I vaguely remembered Bukowski- "Your leg, my leg your arm, my arm" The Greek mythology must be partially right. Or I have lived my whole life.