MY BOOKER PRIZE

MY BOOKER PRIZE


I wrote the first lines of my diary. Those were beautiful, very, very funny. I could see the lights, the glitz and the glamour in that line. The glitterati at my feet, people who would love me because they couldn't understand me. All the parties and the fame; teenagers who wouldn't read, asking, begging me to sign autographs because their friends who read told them I rocked. I was the favourite author of so many. Parents wouldn't let their kids read the book, not because they were sexually explicit but because that was weird. Because they didn't want their kids to be me, no one did. Because I would be the new god-the youngest writer, awed, admired and secretly adored. And old men who spammed my blog would run behind me to get me to sign contracts with other old men, their friends to whom they bragged that they knew me from my pre-famous days as a kid who they thought was lean and flat. I wouldn't be anymore, I would have enough money to stuff myself, not that I need any. I would tuck and pull and soon would be photographed in bikinis riding in expensive cars with rich men, not necessarily handsome because they could never be so. All the money stuffed up their buttocks would make sure they grew ugly, and I would love them because I could hate them all and still be loved. I would be hooked with the juiciest and the famous ones. I would be cheap, rich and a bitchy diva. All because I had money. I would be photographed more, and soon be called one of the sexiest. I would be this, that and little more of this.

Then one fine day, I would be a slut.

And then another day I would be caught doing drugs/on a kinky video tape/indulging in smuggling/stealing.

I would fall, slowly at first, and then I would be there, still. Waiting, the dark would spread with all that I loved before. Anonymity and silence, except for the loud voices of my dreams and words; but there would be something wrong. I was scared of them, my own children, I would be scared and lost. I would want more of the lights, that shone bright in their neon loudness, mercilessly butchering my own. This time all alone-where I belonged, I would be scared and tired.

Moist, sea opens up above,
Where the lights shone bright and enticing,
I wait underground, for a sign,
A duller light that shone in simple delight.