For a life that’s posthumously lived, I don’t brood and ponder Of what I must have What I could’ve become What I really am or whatnot. For life has shipped off To somewhere far, far away I crave & flail throughout my day.
Perhaps that’s the thing about death. It embraces you with perspectives, A frame of reference you could’ve missed You could’ve misconstrued. Rekindling life with death deprives you Of the misfits of the common man, The opinions of the ton, The lifetime shenanigans of ‘their’ plan To your life and needs.
Within the realm of the living, Death braces you with a concept beyond, A life that beholds.
Not everyone is worth Being called a human. Some are a decoration, I would reckon.
In the awe of mere existence, We tend to call all the species, HUMAN. Yet, in all truth, Are all deemed worth being one?
What makes a man a human? Not a decoration amidst the ton? A contradiction. A fallacy, in some? Why would anyone be called a human? In a world full of filth and disguise, Those who pretend to be human, Surmise the baffling existence Of what one could’ve become, Of whom one could have assumed.
Authentic. Realistic. Sensible. (So far as I’ve realised), What makes a person a mere human. For many thrive in poppycock. Nonsensical adventures, I would say. To tell you they are the definition Of what it is to be human.
Well, if one is deemed to tell you the biggest unknown, The unveiled truth of ages, All you could manage is to stifle a laughter Of the paradox of one’s ignorance For they are not, yet, smart To see their loss.
As for me, I’m to learn What, when, and how to be a human. As I died to the life I forlorn, Only to survive becoming a person.
In life, not all things are strifes. Life could taste like the first sip of morning coffee— a wake-up call, a burning, an embracing warmth of a sunny morning .
In love, not everything is pain Or a heartbreak and disdain. It can be a refreshing realm Of a serene domain. A warmth for cold cracks Of our heart creases.
My mind sometimes wonders, To the life that’s not bitter, A love that’s a healer, And a world a little better.
Living underneath the shadow of my ideal twin Is like living in a merciless, dark cavern. For all the times I think My existence is doomed to the brink Of whatever is there between half death And half life, I rise to the hazy life That’s filled with caffeine, Mere bitterness and riots.
That’s when I started to the scars on my body like braille, for I no longer know how to tell a story that belongs deeply to me, but is no longer just mine. It’s a cohesion of all within All without. And everything that has left me bereft. For all days, I stayed in the cavern, For all the moments I’ve shaded myself within, I thrive to become my ideal twin. The one who lives in the veils of the sun, Out in the bright light.
If you smell a smoke passing me by, It’s because my body is burning like a rye, It’s the ashes that graze you, It’s the weak, burnt down bones, You hear clacking. For all I know, My body is revolting life, Surviving the daily shenanigans, The throws and rebukes, While my heart is all swelled, Dared, panicked, and drained.
If you hear a growling sound, Or a creepy humming, Or a yearn of exhaustion, It’s, perhaps, my buzzing brain, My absent mind, And my thoughts, unbridled.
Don’t take notice of my acts, Nor my voice, It’s the sum of uncluttered bits and pieces. Do I wonder to live? Do I ponder about life? Is life passing me by While contemplating? Or am I in a haze of living, While I’m continually, inevitably dying?
Live not, while dying. Die not, while living. It’s not in the stars. It’s rather in the attempts fate resides.
In whispers and sighs, Amidst the whimsy of the days, I fret. I fight. I flight. The wounds might salve themselves The scars might heal But the melancholic riots in my head The flustered thoughts I cuddled Rot my existence. My living strides. Do I live? Should i die? Should I just wait? For life to happen? Would I survive yet another storm? Another tide? Or should I just hide? Knuckle under to the fear of the waver? This is, yet, another rant of a poet. Not a rhymes of a poem.
Through the terrors of the day, Through the beams of the ray, I wilt and fret. Through the bliss of the night, Through the finesse of the quiet, I reign and revolt. Against what, you ask? The shenanigans of living, perhaps? The laws and wrecks of thoughts? Who can say? This is a diatribe of existence. A discourse of attempts. This is a rant of a poet, Not a poetry, nor an art.
Through patience and pain, we learn to surrender to life.
I would say many are surviving the days with all the power they could master. Most are in a mere existence mode. So much so, that many would relate and empathize with the sentence I have marked. Pain is the new normal, perhaps. Or maybe there is no normal anymore. The equivalent of hunting and gathering is, perhaps, surviving and existing.
Nevertheless, it is not all foolish to wonder if there is a horizon beyond the insurmountable pain most experience. Pain powered by patience is a powerful tool to push anyone to the edge of healing. And that specific moment to open the wound marks the fight for healing whilst escalating the pain.
What if there is no healing? I, sometimes, wonder. If there was no such a state called healing, it might be easier to wallow in the pain forever and ever. But then, what if there is? It’s all ifs and wonders after all, isn’t it?
Despite all the ponders, I would like to think that healing could be a journey. In a mere romanticization of pain and suffering, one might succumb to the idea of living in constant pain. But that can be a bit of an extreme. Nor that I am saying all should believe in joy and elation. It is, yet, a mere fact that all need a balance in life. Perhaps, that balance is defined as healing.
These days, more often than not, I feel that constant pain in my bones. It is not a physical pain per se. It is a pain of crossing the boundary of living in constant pain to the paths of healing. My body feels the trauma shatter in every piece of myself. O the trouble of finding the neutral version of yourself while feeling the pain to cease your own death!
In all truth, I believe healing is a constant journey. I do not think it is a state you achieve at some point. It is rather unresolved shenanigans of life itself. Well, it is life after all!
In hesitation, I merely choose. I falter and fall apart. I let my thoughts rule. My mind, overtaken. My body to be absent, My soul to be strained. All is bad in hesitation. Doubt and dread flourish.
Yet,
In haste, I embelish the good with bad. I forget that I exist. I snare at brief moments of life. O in haste, I conquest. I take over it all. If no time is there to think, overthink, and fret, I triumph it all. I beat my overthoughts. I reign over my doubts and frets.
If I were to choose between haste and hesitation, I would rather hesitate not to be in haste. Or shall I just decide with no thought? Would that relieve me of the doubt?
Exactly. What about God? What is it now? What is it always? If no God exists, It itches. If a God exists, It creeps. If none of it bothers, It hinges.
What, then? What about God? If I were to write Whatever I want Whatever I desire What is it really about God That exhausts and tires? What is it about him Uncompelling. Uninteresting. Undesirable. The power? The tantalizing existence? Because he hides even when he exists? Because he manipulates and ghosts? Or is it because he intimidates Without really saying a word? He never communicates Not in a straightforward sense, anyway.
It’s not hate. Nor is it spite It is a matter of fact A way to think about A mere wonder to fret. What is it, though? What is it about God? That itches. That bothers. And that creeps.
Remembrance for the defence Of what we have been once, Nostalgia for the universe We have come across to, The place we claimed to be ours, The memories we left behind, The self we have left beneath.
Days and nights fade, Life still pervades, Within the waves and webs Of the unfolding memories We once dared to weave.
Within the rage of dignified fire And the realms of subdued & broken existence, I live. I love. I thrive. And I dive. I recluse. To the other side of the cruise.
Under the rule of doubt, I’m in fright. A constant state of disquiet. Unrulied force of disconcert. In a bright of a light, I knuckle under the rot Of my very own existence.
In the middle of the night, I, perhaps, would resit. The power to life Even a mere existence. Yet, in the wake of the morning, I believe. I dare to desire. I stopped to tire My unbeaten fervour.
Within doubt, I exist, Under the rule of desire, I tremble and flail. Within the whole of it all, I keep on.
What are we, really? When the light fades, The sun fails to the darkness, When the sound resides, When the crowd recedes, What do we suppose we are, Really?
Whenever asked to define ourselves, What we are made of, Other than the atoms and molecules We feel brewing inside of us, Other than the perpetual need for sleep or food, How are we supposed to define the being we carry? The entity we are presuming to possess? What do we think we really are?
In a perfect world, (Whatever perfect means), In the absence of blemishes and woes, If not for the painful existence we must endure, Or power through, What would have become of us?
If we were to live in a world of no triggers, Or a series of stimuli to disrupt us, Would we have become more Or less of our intended selves?
What is it to be a human? To be the being you’re supposed to be? To suffice a mold, you are supposed to fit? To knot the unseen pieces into one? To fit the broken scruples in unity? Where are we when we exist? What caricatures do we assume in the dark? What edges do we have in a full bright light? What do we see within our portraits? What do we perceive of ourselves when alone? The bitterness we savor, The sweet agony we linger on, The weakness we dread, The strength we bury, What are we, really? What are we supposed to be?
What is it to live? What is it to die? Love, hate, cry, laugh? What is it to burn? What is it to soar? What is it to fall?
If it weren’t for the facades we live by, The presumed self we pride ourselves on, Would we have become more or less of a human?
If it wasn’t for the temples, We built for ourselves, Where we revere our thoughts, Where we govern the universe, And worship ourselves, What would have become of us?
If we don’t parade ourselves With the cheer of existence, The gloat of success (one or too many), The mischief of living, Would that be a path to becoming a human?
Yet,
If we are not humans, What are we, then? The automated machines we seek to become? No emotion. No imperfection. No taint or flaw. Perfect, polished, and proud. What a shame to seek the unknown, When we can explore the given?
Whatever we are made of, Wherever we exist, However, we pertain to life, If we are to be humans, There must be a way to become, A path to trace, A life to embody, Or a being to hold on to. An imperfect folly, A wavering statue, A battled soldier, And a slave to the truth.
Because we are human. If not all the time, At least in some.
Living in the now, Letting it be. Just be. Not more. Not less.
In the premise of the now, The standards of today, I don’t peek into tomorrow. Gripping my reality. Catching my own life, Before it drifts away. Holding to my breath, Before it burns off.
For not all things mean more, Not everything has depth, An ulterior meaning than it holds. For life is something that happens Within the turn of events The tornadoes of the changes, Within the realms of simplicity, Despite the raves of the complexities. And yet, it persists. Life endures the past, the now, and even more.
It’s sometimes better To just be, other than not to. It’s perhaps far better, To exist, other than not to.
In an attempt to exist, And an occasional living, I am holding my breath. Receding to my brace, Flailing to my loci of reality, I’m holding my breath. Dearly. Closely. Warming my being incessantly. And when I breathe, I see the holding fading, The fog unveiling, My life unfolding.
Unabridged Manuscripts 