From: India
About me: About me? Well.. Recluse, dysphoric, morose, inane, insane, caffeine-addict, misread, ascetic, platitudinal, dreamer, volatile, scathing, auspicate, deviant, disparate, iridescent, chatoyant, irate, morbid, colors, canvas, creation, hue, saturation, redemption, vehement, profound, intense, abysm, aphoristic, bound? Creative, encumbered, blasphemous, extant, sentient, opiate? Absurd, moronic, loony, preposterous, harebrained? Plastic blue conversations, paradoxes, anomalies, threnodies, acousmas, delusions, illusions, soliloquies?
Monday, February 12, 2007,2:12 PM
As I look out of the window in the train, past vast expanses of grass, past bland white houses, past dry, barren lands, into the distant blue horizon; I wonder why I don't write anymore.
There's this strange kind of lethargy that has filled me, rendering me incapacitated to write anymore. I write for my projects. I write for other trivialities. But, I've stopped writing for myself.
I tear my gaze away from the window and look about me. My thoughts begin meandering as usual. There's a middle - aged man reclining on the berth opposite mine. An unusually long mustache and seven days' stubble have given him a distinctly loutish appearance.
I stifle a yawn.
A child is bawling somewhere in the distance.
I turn towards the window again... Seeing but not registering. Hearing but not listening.
My thoughts turn towards writing, again, and I decide to do something definite about it, maybe, write more often. I rest my head against the window pane warmed by the gentle February sun. It is a boring journey, indeed.
I fidget wit the catch that fastens the berth and think..
"The inquietude is killing..
The ennui, devastating.. "
I nod my head in silent approval. Maybe I identify with what he said.
The train continues chugging through green meadows and past modest huts.
I fall asleep noiselessly.
,12:57 PM
Staring wordlessly into nothingness,
Wondering when will I be freed from this barless prison...
Its raining.
Washing away all hopes and desires,
Of that one last flight..
A Silent quiver of a broken wing.
A silent plea,
Soft, on the face of Death.
I wrote in verse after a long, long time..
I was out of town for a bit and I desperately wanted to get back to Bombay. It seemed like an eternity before I'd get to come back home. While I wrote this, I was essentially morose. Also, the fact that maggots fed on the flesh of my foster mother and my aunt, had disturbed me a great deal. She once used to be a very energetic woman. It was saddening to see such a wasted existence.
Both of the feelings combined and led me to write the above verse.
Wondering when will I be freed from this barless prison...
Its raining.
Washing away all hopes and desires,
Of that one last flight..
A Silent quiver of a broken wing.
A silent plea,
Soft, on the face of Death.
I wrote in verse after a long, long time..
I was out of town for a bit and I desperately wanted to get back to Bombay. It seemed like an eternity before I'd get to come back home. While I wrote this, I was essentially morose. Also, the fact that maggots fed on the flesh of my foster mother and my aunt, had disturbed me a great deal. She once used to be a very energetic woman. It was saddening to see such a wasted existence.
Both of the feelings combined and led me to write the above verse.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net