horror – diary of a lone man

27.12.2025

A: Are monsters real?

S: Yes. I have loved the monster. In fact, many of the problems that we have in the world stem from the fact that we love the monster.

A: Why a monster?

S: The monster does not look like a monster. The monster is beautiful. But the beauty is deceit. Inside, the monster has this shrunken heart and they are full of hate. That is what makes them a monster. A monster cannot love. They can only hate.

A: You say that because the monster could not love you.

S: But can the monster love anyone? Except for themselves?

A: Can you love anyone except for yourself?

S: It is a redundant point. I loved the monster. The monster was that which was not I.

A: You say loved. Have you cured yourself of this sickness, this love for the monster?

S: The monster has filled me with rage. I boil in this rage. It can last a week or more at a time.

A: Is this monster a person or a metaphor?

S: Why tell? The storyteller says something. It is for the reader to guess at the meaning. I cannot be pinned down. I am the author.

A: Perhaps the monster loves. Another.

S: The monster and I have separate paths in this life. I do not speak or look at monsters. I keep myself away from their claws, their talons and their teeth. Whatever, whoever they love, I keep myself aloof. I do not trust in the love of a monster. Their hearts are not true.

A: Why? You are The Tiger. You are what strikes fear in the hearts of monsters. Are you scared of the monster?

S: I avoid the monster because loving the monster is death. Love cannot love hate. I am love. To be seduced by the monster is to be seduced by evil. Their lips lie. Their bodies lie. Their eyes lie. They are a lie. They lie that they love. They love that they lie. Once in my heart there was this monster. So I burnt my heart alive. And then, from the roots of the old one, I grew another. I built a wall around my heart. Which no monster can pass.

07.11.2025

S. was woken up in the morning from a dream of sadness by the alarm clock.

He was at the context where everything had happened with the one that had broken his heart. And it was a lunch time. He had gone to a shopping mall outside with another friend. It wasn’t any friend. It was a friend with a tragic past whose mother had died as a child. His company was sadness. Someone who had been separated from a woman, a mother.

The shopping had been torturous. His friend had walked in front. S. was following him. But he couldn’t follow him. S. was so sad that he had lain there face down on the ground in front of everyone. S. wanted to give up. It had consumed a lot of time. So S. had to take a taxi back. He was running late.

The taxi driver, an Indian woman (S. was Indian) had charged him an extortionate amount of money on arrival back to the place where the breaker of his heart was. Twenty five pounds. And, on arrival at the place where the breaker of his heart was, because he had to go back, he saw the Indian women’s children there. She was the mother.

He had to pay. He fumbled around in his little plastic seethrough bag of things. He kept on looking but couldn’t find the card. The Indian mother’s daughter was approaching him, looking for a tip, demanding more money.

Suddenly two bouncers appeared. They were accusing S. of trying to get away without paying the Indian mother. And then, S. found the card. Finally, he could pay the mother.

That was when the alarm bell rang and S. woke up.

In his dreams, the sadness of heartbreak was being processed. And his duty to the Mother was being processed. His debt to the Mother. She was being processed in his dreams, the women in his life and in the realm of his ideas, India’s ideas. The words he couldn’t say out loud, the things he couldn’t say out loud in a world of judgement, enmity and hostility. His past. Who could understand? Only an Indian in England.