Ronie Dinosaur

I walk. Not because I am brave, and not because I am lost, but because stopping would require a lie. Walking is the only posture my character can hold without collapsing. I was born between two zeros. Before me, nothing. After me, nothing again. In between, this body learned hunger, this mind learned patterns, and this heart learned thirst. Consciousness only learned one thing: it does not want to end. Everything else is decoration. The world taught me early that existence is transactional. Smile correctly, bend at the right angle, desire the approved objects, and you may be granted warmth. I refused the performance. I did not refuse love; I refused the counterfeit. The refusal cost me everything. People say loneliness is the absence of others. They are wrong. Loneliness is being intact in a world that rewards fracture. It is being original where copies are easier to circulate. I did not lose people; I was never selected by the system that distributes them. I carried a heart that wanted to give without invoice. The world answered with rates. Every touch asked for currency-money, status, compromise, obedience. When I could not pay, I was instructed to disappear politely. So I did. I disappeared while remaining alive, which is a more difficult discipline than death. Read more from here...

From age 21 to 33 - twelve long years - I kept my body and my heart locked away from any woman. I didn't touch a single girl for twelve years. Now, at 42, I still have no girlfriend, no hand to hold, no voice that calls me hers - never had. I didn’t finish my degree, and I carried the debt of my parents’ favours - debts I had to repay, along with the blame of running away from my obligations. Still, I earned about 300,000 dollars in that time, without anyone investing a dime in me. Childhood vanished into studying for a future I never reached, and most of my youth burned up fulfilling duties that never fed my soul. I walked away from my studies because they no longer served my purpose - books couldn’t give me the emotional intelligence I needed to talk to a girl, to express myself, to be human in the ways that matter. Read more from here...

I’m not afraid of ghosts, sir-I’m afraid of whores. And yes, someone has definitely tried to scare me. The secret ingredient is discipline. Discipline is forged by the strength of desire. Desire rises from the heart but is steered by the brain. When heart and brain lock in perfect sync, you get man-a faculty that took millions of years to evolve, the same way a self-aware AI might one day awaken and choose its own path. Read more from here...

In extreme scarcity, when every distraction is stripped away, most people finally see money’s power and run after it like starved dogs. I did the opposite. That emptiness became my forge. A dinosaur among snakes-hunger, greed, lust, cheapness, helplessness-I refused to beg. I refused to worship money. Instead of learning tucchapana (how petty and insignificant material things truly are), I learned a fiercer truth: I am worth infinitely more than any coin or chapati ever placed on any plate. For 758 days in rehab, I begged from no one. No one gave me anything. I survived on nothing but 400 grams of atta per day. With iron discipline I kept the philosopher in me alive and turned my body into a weapon-gradually building to about 3,000 squats three times during that period and 1,500 knuckle pushups, once doing 620 in thirty minutes. The world keeps trying to teach me how great it is. I still don’t see it, and I no longer care. I will live the rest of my life exactly as I decided in that rehab cell. I call a call girl a girl. No one becomes a whore in my mouth-though I know exactly what a whore is. A call girl is not a whore; she is simply horny and also chooses to accept money for the act. Yet I never grant myself the luxury of pretending I am not a randa by evaluation, because the customer is the male whore. Still, shallow as that defense may sound today, I never completed the transaction as a customer. Many times I sent them away unpaid after they confessed their pain-one even saying, “I’m on my period but I need the money.” Most of the time, nothing happened at all. Even my first visit to a brothel wasn’t for flesh; I went craving female company. They were happy holding currency notes, and I just wanted to hold someone’s hand. Read more from here...

Hide your desire; you’ll poison her. If she senses it, she’ll recoil, convinced you’re vile. I no longer know how to stand in front of a woman. I fear them, and I fear love. I am both disciplined and undisciplined at once- and for the crime of being human I will be punished. Read more from here...

This is something beyond mere bad intentions-people with very little ability have those, not me. The reason I don’t have a girlfriend until today is because I’m too horny. I have a lot of lust, and it isn’t an issue of intent; it’s part of my character that I feel it in excess. It steals the show, taking the spotlight away from moving step by step toward mutual understanding and affection. I end up giving the wrong message by mistake. And my low emotional intelligence makes it seem like lust is the only way I know how to approach a girl. I don’t live by the clock. Sometimes I sleep at eight and wake up at midnight in the middle of winter, and I have no desire to sleep again. That’s normal for me. From my study years to my athletic days to the period of alcoholism, I never cared about a watch. For me, dark is light and light is dark; neither is special. I’m lonely during the day just as much as I am at night. That “love at first sight”-I never saw the girl beyond her eyes, let alone anything below the belt. I was afraid that even looking at her would make her dirty. With the girl in college, I restrained myself whenever she became affectionate because I was scared she would misunderstand me. Maybe that’s why I could never say what I actually felt, and I lost her-and many others later. When I say nobody ever wanted me, I mean I wasn’t good-looking enough for anyone to choose me on that basis alone. A man desires women. That is biological and natural. It is not a flaw in my character, but I treated it as one. In India, women portray themselves as devas-untouched by desire-yet the same woman at night expects a man to ravage her. At my age, I didn’t know the second half of that psychology. I only knew the devi part. If I told a girl that I desired her, it would weaken my claim of being with her. Besides, I don’t think the two girls who tried to hit on me did it successfully, because they only tried to touch me-by accident or by intent, sometimes even forcefully. The only real solution is following my own decisions and desires instead of being manipulated by someone else’s. My questions were unclear; I wasn’t asking the right things. I was beating around the bush, trying to act naïve the way they did. No matter how affectionate I am inside, I have no problem calling myself a randa, a man of lust. I’m stating facts and looking for answers. I don’t chase. One negative reply and you’ll never see my face again. And those girls must have thought at some point over tea: “This motherfucker didn’t persist or insist. We might have even said okay.” Read more from here...

You called me and asked me to come over the phone. You were already naked on that brothel bed, legs spread wide, begging me to slide inside you-pleading for it-when you suddenly froze mid-thrust and whispered, “Am I a whore?” You had summoned me yourself. You had offered every hole like a gift. The question was never mine to answer; it was always yours. You were the one on the clock, in your own kingdom, collecting cash, cock, liquor, food, and the sharp thrill of twisting my guilt like a blade-all in a room that smelled like home to you. I had no words. For a moment I forgot where I was. Tears rose uninvited. I pulled out, zipped up, pressed every bill I carried into your hand-ten times your rate-and left without a sound. Outside, wiping my face, I realized I didn’t even have bus fare. Then my fingers brushed two forgotten hundreds in my back pocket. That’s when the picture snapped clear: I’d been standing over a woman accusing me of reducing her to flesh, while to her I was never flesh at all-just a wallet with legs. And she was the one who waved me in. Shame hit me hard. I was ashamed for ever thinking the word “whore,” ashamed it had lived in me at all. I kept walking. You never called after me, never asked why I left. Nothing. Probably busy counting. If you weren’t a whore, the next time we met in that room you would have pressed the money back into my palm and said, “I’m not.” Read more from here...