RGB mood

It’s one of those days when I feel like making paper boats out of marketing briefs, sail them on the sea and watch them drown.

One of those days when I want to sit alone in a shack with my legs up, let the sand settle on my legs, jam with Old Monk and Bob Marley, watch the mirage appearing on the horizon of the sea and sunbathe.

I’m bringing Goa to Mumbai.

Where you write for yourself, feel good and smile. And if you don’t feel like it, you can just doze off. The deadlines won’t wake you up.  And the good old servicing fella’ looks like a bar tender who serves a shot of kamikaze instead of the brief (no offence meant).  Every mandate sounds like a drink and the creative routes sound like trippy psychedelic tracks.

Not get drunk, yet feel like the tides that are always happy high.

Give Microsoft Word a break today and not sell fake stuff. Instead, write simple thoughts on tissue papers that smell of rum and let them blow away with the wind.

Don’t want to see the office lights come on at 6 pm, but watch darkness set in on the beach. Whistle away, do a small tap dance on Buffalo Soldiers and cuddle up under the sand. Feel like the ‘real Coke’ that makes its way smoothly into my rum glass after pushing all the fizz out.

Coz when I wake up, I want to carry home the sand in my hair strands, feel dirty, light and loose. Stretch myself, yawn and say, “Damn, that was a good trip”.

Are you a condom or a sperm?

Now I know how that sperm feels. The one that races past millions of them to reach the egg first.  Off late my headlines feel the same. The layout is the egg. In the race to win, each line kills the other to reach my boss’ inbox. If round 1 doesn’t get approved, the second lot of lines does the same. Strangulate, suffocate each other, and try to be better than the one behind it. The only difference is that nothing really makes its way to his inbox. They are all a bunch of dead sperms by the time they enter that space. Or they humbly settle on the underwear, the portfolio. 

And suddenly, the boss' line emerges like a condom. A huge, long condom that stops my lines from making it to the layout. And if that is not enough, sometimes there is a strawberry flavored condom. It’s called the client’s line. The one who always says, “It’s nice but could be like this…” Sugar coated way of pushing their line. Then there is a netted condom, called the “management”. Every big line has to go through the big bosses. In the process, obviously the line loses its value again.  Then there is an RGB colored condom called the art director who doesn’t want the line to affect his colors. 

However, not every condom is safe. Most of these condoms have an unnoticed slit that fucks up the layout. What comes out eventually is a physically challenged or deformed ad that becomes a laughing stock. The good lines die a silent death within these condoms. Once in a blue moon, one of these semi-dead lines crawl out of the slit and manage to appear on the layout. But by then, it’s not the same anymore. Where is my line in all this mess? That good old sperm which was produced out of sheer love between the writer and his thoughts? A condom only stops the natural process.It stops what can turn out to be something beautiful. No wonder why sex is most pleasurable without the condom.