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Ford v Ferrari. Bhenchod.

 “There’s a point at 7,000 rpm, where everything fades. The machine becomes weightless. Just disappears. All that’s left is a body, moving through space and time.”

- Ford v. Ferrari (2019)

Lowda. At 7k rmp, in second gear on a 250cc mill, doing some 70 kmph, when the rev-limiter is crying its tits off, you’re effectively doing an Italian tune-up-pro-max on the go like a bloody moron. And when the brake pads are 70% shot, “like a bloody fuckin moron”.

Definitely not safe. Especially on one of the “few” goddamn, pothole-free roads in the bloody city of Bangalore (thanks daddy Kempe Gowda).  

There comes a point in every man’s life when he chooses between protecting his sanity or letting it all go and embracing the chaos of life. When he stops making sense of what’s happening around him and instead contribute to the entropy.

Anarchist’s cookbook ftw!

Maybe this is how mid-life crisis looks like. Or meant to look like.

A desire to break free from the shackles of… well, the unintended, the inconsequential, the untimely demise of one’s sanity.

“Om Shanti. RIP my Manashanti.”

-          Me, circa 2015

Why are you still reading this drivel? What’s wrong with you? I stopped writing this a long ago. Now it’s just a unconscious free-flow of my sub-conscious stream of thought that’s running wild and naked.

 

Do you even know what an Italian tune-up is?

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