Indulging ridicule

Have you ever written something when you are really angry? Or even acutely irritated? The words come out with a sharpness that belies their true self - their utter futility in some situations. I am in one such situation. Where words are quite futile or perhaps even redundant.

One waits all one's life to find someone to whom one will bare all of oneself only to find that the chosen one would rather listen to someone else. Such irony is writ in every minuscule drop of sweat that drips from one's brow as one takes an extremely jolty ride back home, on one of Delhi Metro's feeder buses.

It is so ridiculously simple that I cannot even believe that I, for once thought that something else was ever possible. Believing in the inherent goodness in people's hearts is no good because give anybody - anybody - the chance and they will walk all over you and take you for the fire hydrant that the dog-self in them demands. There is no room for virtue or truth or monogamy. All you will get is mockery, disdain and the information that someone else will readily oblige the desire that you are fighting so hard to contain and how angry that makes a certain someone. You are supposed to feel suitably ashamed at being told thus.

One will find writing and sex intricately woven into tapestry that just will not go with the furniture in one's home - making one a lost writer and a laughable lover all-in-one. All this while the interiors of chic castles in the air will be deemed perfect whereas one's own dust crusted mud house will forever seem quite blasé in comparison.

In between all this one will find hate swell in places one did not know one had, for persons whose puny existence on this planet should be of no consequence to one's life - but just the same - one will hate them.

There is no word to quite describe what one is feeling at the moment, cementing one's belief in their futility and in one's own ineptitude with the subtle art-form of writing. What is most certain though, is that one seems to be a living breathing monument to being "taken for granted." So much so that one is almost considered a part of the furniture more often than not - good to recline on when needing a rest, otherwise just dusting the dirt off every now and then is the only service one needs and gets. And when one gets old or broken, one can just as easily be replaced.

In case someone is still reading this and wondering where is all this going - it is not really going anywhere. It will not get anywhere anytime soon, which is pretty much how one's life is at the moment. A circle. And a vacuum trapped inside it. So if you want to go and have a cup of tea or coffee in the interim, please do. One has a lot of work to do before one can attempt looking sane and happy tomorrow. After all, one must never say die.

Never, they say, is a very long time.

Banished with blessings

I was blessed

with s i g h t

clear, sharp.


I was blessed

with m a d n e s s

distilled, exuberant.


I was blessed

with p a t i e n c e

elastic, serene.


I was blessed

with l o v e

idealistic, foolish.


How does that sound?
Blessed soul, am I?
L o s t!
...lost amidst my blessings...
... ... ...lost... ...
Never found.


No blessing will ever.
Let. Me. In.
Ever.

Into
that
n
o
o
k of your heart
where my blessed curse
.
.
.
.
hides.