I'm sitting here in my room with this mug of tea in my hand. It's my second. It's odd because I usually don't have more than one in a day. My day doesn't start without it either. I am literally incapable of all sorts of movement until I have had my doze of chai for the day. But it's odd because I've been sitting here in his same position for nearly two hours now. There is no movement. There actually hasn't been much in a while. I think I gulped down that second mug-full in hopes that there might be some today.
No stirs, no turns of a page. The twist of a pen, an ankle, sole of the foot seems lost. I see my reading lamp there, lying on my table in all its order and serenity. Only I cannot reach out and switch the light on.
But what have I done? Only nineteen and nothing yet.
We love, lose, give up, stand up, strive, win and sometimes lose again. There is So Much to be done. So Much to be Read, Heard, Spoken and Unspoken. So many leaps to be risked and a few friends left behind. Why then are these days like those nauseating merry-go-rounds I have always run away from? The inescapable kind. Cotton-candied-pink grins and sharp, sugar-coated, mechanical screeches of joy. Clownish smiles, mocking with electronic, dizzying tunes of the merry-go-round. Whereto from here? How? And I realize I am living my dread; I am living a sense of completion. The point of rest is the death of all thought. There is no rest, thankfully and unfortunately. Rounds. I come back to the same point I start off from every morning, without turning corners. I laugh too. You can die of fake happiness.
I read poetry in times like these, find briefly worded comforts but there seems to be no rhythm in the verses that I find. All of a sudden, I don't see, a rhyme in all that I have composed in these two years.
There are thoughts and there are questions. There were replies too. But there was no poetic justice in them. There was no poetry in the hearts. Only hearts broken and illusions restricted to delusional verses. Only in written. Never in Life.
There is only one window in this room. I think I'll attempt to open a book again.
No stirs, no turns of a page. The twist of a pen, an ankle, sole of the foot seems lost. I see my reading lamp there, lying on my table in all its order and serenity. Only I cannot reach out and switch the light on.
But what have I done? Only nineteen and nothing yet.
We love, lose, give up, stand up, strive, win and sometimes lose again. There is So Much to be done. So Much to be Read, Heard, Spoken and Unspoken. So many leaps to be risked and a few friends left behind. Why then are these days like those nauseating merry-go-rounds I have always run away from? The inescapable kind. Cotton-candied-pink grins and sharp, sugar-coated, mechanical screeches of joy. Clownish smiles, mocking with electronic, dizzying tunes of the merry-go-round. Whereto from here? How? And I realize I am living my dread; I am living a sense of completion. The point of rest is the death of all thought. There is no rest, thankfully and unfortunately. Rounds. I come back to the same point I start off from every morning, without turning corners. I laugh too. You can die of fake happiness.
I read poetry in times like these, find briefly worded comforts but there seems to be no rhythm in the verses that I find. All of a sudden, I don't see, a rhyme in all that I have composed in these two years.
There are thoughts and there are questions. There were replies too. But there was no poetic justice in them. There was no poetry in the hearts. Only hearts broken and illusions restricted to delusional verses. Only in written. Never in Life.
There is only one window in this room. I think I'll attempt to open a book again.
I've read almost all of your posts; this has to be deepest and best written so far!
ReplyDeleteHappy to hear that. Thanks a lot!
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