He's walking
He thinks of a poem while he walks
He wants to write it when he goes home
But will he be able to?
Will he remember it with the intensity and flow it has in his mind right now?
He doesn't ponder upon the thought though
That's not what he wants to do.
He's in a lecture, a seminar
And he drifts off
He wants to be present
He wants to show an expression of relatability on his face to the speaker in front of him
The author, of a book he didn't care to remember
Or ask,
Was so vulnerable.
(He could never do that)
Instead he's thinking about that poem
The room is cold
It makes him want to sleep
There is a bag on the table
And the handle is hanging off the edge
It's disturbing
He wants to fix it
It's not his bag
Intrusive thoughts are winning
He's always been asked the right questions
But given the wrong options to choose from
They never give him the correct ones, only check instead if he has courage enough to choose the common one.
He always wants to add a secret third correct option to the question paper
Which he wants to tick with black ink
Before submitting
But that is never the case
He regrets it
He regrets the futility of it
His life is a mess of plugs and sockets
In and out and off and on
He runs the risk of getting electrocuted
But he doesn't care enough to dwell upon that thought
If the world wants to take him, he will let it
Why anticipate?
Loud rock music blasts in his ears
No one around him can hear
The person sitting beside him can't hear the loud screams beyond the rock music
His loud screams, that muffle the rock music
His ears ring with so much noise
With so much loudness
It's unbearably calm
The bus keeps turning
He clutches onto the bar on the seat in front of him
He doesn't want to fall, doesn't want to lose balance
Doesn't want to let his body be defeated by the momentum
He's trying his best
His monthly Midas touch, rapidly rusting away, screams at the top of its voice
Much like the music
He's trying his best
His father begs
His mother is dissapointed
But he's trying his best
There is a beast on the footpath
Running alongside the bus
It wants to outrun the bus
Seems as though it is giving the run all it's got
It's giving the chase it's best shot
He feels like a prey
But in a competition with the predator much smaller than him
He's not to be eaten
But to be challenged
He feels like he's going to lose.
The bus wins, obviously
It's a manade thing
But does he?
His life is filled with accidents
Drivers at fault
Passengers at risk
Never the other way round
For once he's lucky that he's not to blame
His life is in the hands of those who know less but act like they know more
He doesn't care
He can't bring himself to care
If he does, it will drive him mad
And he can't afford to do that
He has to stay sane
For the world's sake
He has to stay sane
He walks with a limp in his leg
He thinks about how
The things you do to die are far easier than the things you do to survive
And he limps
He bumps into a friend who pulls him into an orchestra
Or perhaps a circus
There's someone dancing at the center of the stage
“Look,” he's friend says, pointing towards the dancer.
“What is he doing?” He asks.
“Composing his next Best Seller.” His friend answers.
“A novel?” He asks once again
“Are you serious?” His friend nudges, “A play!”
And he watches the composer in action
The playwrite with half lidded eyes dances to an unsteady rhythm that somehow he knows
He recognises
A foreign tune he heard somewhere
Maybe in a forest, maybe in the gym
It's a tune he knows too well but can't quite place
He limps forward and there's no one to stop him
He doesn't want to be seen by the dancer,
Just wants to observe his effortless movements
It's almost as if he's floating
Somewhere along the way he thinks he himself becomes the dancer
With an audience to watch him
He makes them happy, he feels happy doing so
Somewhere along the way the lines blur
His head tilts
To survive becomes to die and to die becomes to perish and to perish becomes the reason to be reborn
He doesn't want to be reborn
Oh but he must
For that's the rule of existance
He wants to dance in this endless loop of existance instead
And pretend if only for a second
That he is alive, for nothing but himself.
Alive and free.