A Sham

This is a place,
I have reached today,
After many years, to be more precise,
10413th day.

A state of feeling still new,
Too good to quit.
Yet sometimes, A feeling,
I have had enough of this.

Mornings filled with,
Let’s do this!
Let’s be that!
While many of them,
Bland and flat.

What is the objective of this project,
That I am.
What is the question and the answer,
I am the exam.

“The meaning of life is to give it a meaning.”
But it is not convincing enough,
Hence I can’t stick to one meaning.

This is a place, I have reached today,
Seems like all the same,
Where I started.

This is a place, I have reached today,
Maybe time is a sham,
I never started.

A Sweet Deal

At the highest peaks,
It’s a delight, one of kind.
You would want it to be immortalised.

At the lowest of the lows,
The pain, the agony, so blinding
Altleast mortality gives the promise of a release from this life.

The in-between’s are the most tricky,
Oh the struggle,
Whether risk to live like there is no end,
Or risk to live because, it is going to end.

The Trespasser

Dreams are strange places,
The stranger they get,
The stranger I am to myself.

It feels like I am trespassing in someone else’s mind,
I am almost trying to hide, be invisible in my own mind.

Dreams I dream are in particular surreal,
The things I think and feel during waking state,
They become too real as if that is the real real.

If the light from the key hole is the waking state,
Dreams are the fully wide open doors.

How distastefully cruel,

To feel like an outcast in your own subconscious,

In the big shop, everything unaffordable only for you,
How everyone is beautiful except for you.

Walk away from the place, but the path gets steeper,
Danger lies ahead as you climb down the rough path that you know you so deserve.

No-one you can recognize,
You need to rely on yourself,
But that’s the scariest part, Isn’t it ?
Are you capable to be relying on yourself ?

It is true indeed,
Dreams are strange places,
The stranger they get,
The stranger you are to yourself.


Auto/Manual

Who you become this minute, is a little more than the last minute,


Little by little you become more, yet you shed away some part of yours.


Whatever feels right, you add on,
To the already existing version of yours.


Who is to say what you might become, who you could have become.


Why something feels right for you but the same thing does not work for other.


Mind goes after certainty,


Body goes for survival ,


You are on a tight rope


Balancing the avoidance of uncertainty and dodging the mortality.


Who knows what would have been your motivations and intentions,


If there was no fear driving your two driving forces.

7/7, 21

There is a constant ache in my chest, A heaviness, like some burden I am carrying, which I can’t shake.

It seems like to me that it is a burden of being different, being me.

It seems like it would not have been there, if I was normal, obedient and wanted what is the norm and the trend set in.

The most dreadful of all,

It might very well be the burden of not knowing what I want and, if I even want something.

You can cage me but not my will

I have been difficult to condition, I know it tries its best,

Sometimes, it feels like its almost there.

Yet I have resisted and the resistance has been my most natural state.

I have been tough one to crack,

Even though cracking seemed like an easy way path.

Even with all its fear and insecurities,

I have never been able to see it in a serious light;

I have been the most obnoxious subject,

Out in the cold has never been enough to get me in line,

It tries, and I suffer

But suffering feels like the right way out of this.

I have been its failed project,

It tries to fit me in the puzzle,

but I refuse to take the obedient shape.

I have not accepted the acceptable ‘I’,

Always remembering, what is there without the ‘I’,

What is there, when is no giving in to the conditioning,

What is there, when is no shame, no guilt, no what everyone will think ,

No fitting in to the mold, ‘I’ have been assigned with.

I do surrender to that what is remaining.

Oh Wayward spirit !

The wayward spirit

Confined to the body,

And to the mind,

Trying to behave

For the sake of the breath that’s been given.

Many oftens, it follows the line,

But the rare is always around the corner.

The wayward spirit,

Infamous and unpredictable,

It takes the rough turn

Even if what’s ahead can’t yet reach the eyes.

Wayward spirit, worship is your worth;

If nothing about this life charms,

Your panic striking wise turns,

Makes this breath, this life worth.

The art of listening

How often do you listen to yourself,

When you know that you know better than you think.

When the hand starts to shiver,

There is the start of the battle, that you only can feel.

When the heart skips the beat,

Some people think its romantic!

How often do you listen to yourself,

When someone makes your stomach churn,

When your own decision feels like someone pushing the buttons.

How often do you listen to yourself,

When your dreams repeat the story,

The reality you don’t want to see.

How often do you listen to yourself,

When your yes keeps on haunting you,

Because you are too afraid,

What the No would do.

So tell yourself

How often do you listen to yourself.

Anything but,

Can I be the air, that blows without going anywhere,

but be everywhere.

Can I be the earth that does not get sad when stepped on,

but be the ground for roots to stand strong.

Can I be the water that flows without destination,

Every droplet, No race From ocean, To ocean, In ocean

It just always flows without any winner.

Can I be the fire that burn as it fits,

not feeling guilty or proud

For engulfing whole forests,

Or keeping it warm, the night and skin.

Can I be in anyway, anything but I,

In the home state, where these spirits reside.

Disclaimer

Disclaimer: Nothing I write is true, universal or a fact; except what i just wrote.

Who is to say what the truth is, how can anyone say what anything is.

All that I write, all that I express,

Is only a truth that I believe in.

I can be dishonest or better word ignorant,

And say I know what all of this is.

But how can an identity know,

what the eternal whole is.

The identity always is loyal to its story,

And its story evolves as the identity sees fit.