On some days I am a canvas of painting delved into colours of love for life and pain of reality. I am sad and I am successful. My mysticism is eternal like the sunrays' falling on the window sill.
The Window sill which has seen barren land turn homes and homes turn mansions.Mansions which plagued the soul and gave rise to human bots luring breathing beings to work for an extra hour, serve the mansion mechanism, so that they can secure their houses with culture, political instability and recession. But that's all a distinct dream, because till 45 you eat the relics of your foul soul and swallow frustration at the speed of 50 litres per hour like a fish that swallows water left to live in fish tank.
Tank covered with frost as if the voices of hearts inside it have been frozen. Frozen because thats the dogmatic criteria they need encompass in order participate in the "race of lifestyle." Maybe someday you will cross the red ribbon and win the race to good lifestyle. Until then you will serve the masters of your faith. By sitting for eleven hours a day because nothing here is now fate but all is hard earned.
Earn! You will Earn. While you will lose morality and peace and earn a living where you are oppressed and the oppressor. It's all an infinte even cycle until you cross the race beyond the mark and set the new bars. Until you learn to inferiorise another caste/race/community. Because that's the lesson you must remember you work hard until there is nothing soft in you left.
Left nothing! In this whisteling, buzzling world, where Nightingale song is stranger dream. Keats ghosts has also left. Well he was not able to deduce any new Odes, because here you have no art left to cherish. No dreams to live. No fat kid drawings to fit in an astronaut suit landing on an undiscovered moon. Because imagination have exhausted and become non renewable resource.
Resources. Everyone and everything is a resource here. From the butterfly in your stomach to hunger in your heart or anguish when you fail. All can be optimized and institutionalized in ways that no boy is here feels for his Romeo. On some days this all seems like a Van Gou painting gone wrong or Kafkaesque narrative.
Nevertheless, rationally saying it is not.This is my window sill. This my mansion.This is the life. Life that has valueless value and death that's the honourable sabbatical I wish for. Hobbies which are my escapade but well for today my canvas is full. I am full. So I must go back to my urgent call.
My country reaped Independence roughly 75 years ago and here I am in 2021 living in a city of 233.5 km² area - Jodhpur. Scribbling the tumbling, vestiges of past and the angst of Gen Z. Describing you the state gifted to us now, Wrapped with climate change and Pandemic, by the forefathers of then and the predators of now. My city is just like a subtle disaster. Adorning blue walls With public pee and spit. Broken hearts and road, Where crowd runs Without masks, Except after 8 PM, Because duh, my dear Covid walks in. My city is not unique, It is the same as yours. In my city poets scribble, And die. But their words live. My city is just like yours is a Subtle disaster, Reaching soon to explode With deaths of souls And the human mind. It is a Subtle disaster in the funeral pyre In heart's raging. My city is just like yours where the youth pray to die young and the charlatan old rules. Cities like yours and mine are the cities where poems scribbled by youth collapse. My city is just like yours where gallons of oil, milk goes to gutter and meantime eight lakh kids in our country die malnourished. Cities like yours and mine are the cities where poems scribbled by youth collapse.
Those scribbled poems that lie collapse are memoirs of prolonged sadness and injustice, served on platter of activists and hunger felt for love. Distorted visionaries sell utopian promises like freshly baked cookies they smell nice. While behind the show the art that reflects angst of artist are suppressed and buried under the charges of sedition. Such are the cities and nations where poems scribbled by you and me and youth collapse. These are cities where the subtle disaster, is in creation in every street in every act of rape and instigation of communal violence.
I've always wanted to drift carelessly in the cosmic chaos, to feel the stardust on my fingers and write poetries about its flaws. So whenever I see a shooting star, all I wish is, for it to take me back to the moon so I can find my abode on Venus.
They say that the universe is beyond our imagination and we haven't even discovered one percent of its vastness, aren't we a philosophical mess? Some say it's better this way, who knows what all things are lurking out there, I say why do we care? Isn't our existence in itself a miracle? Who knows how many miracles are waiting to be revived out there.
I try to probe the cosmos with my beguiling words, for I know it's the closest I'll ever come to experice the euphoric bliss.
I wish I was a bird, one that never gets tired and leaves mankind behind.
I wish to collect some stars and adorn them on my paintings, they might just come to life.
I wish to sit on the farthest cloud and see if the planets really move in slow motion or is it just another of our illusions.
I wish to wish unfathomable things, for maybe I'm out of poetries.
So on a paper I write;
I was a kaleidoscope in a monotonous black and white world.
I am often insanely driven by people. Some drive me crazy because they make me sick, while others drive me crazy In a way where I feel utterly unprecedented of being who I am and how the world has shaped me and yet they just decide to stick with me come what may. I cannot count upon the reasons to weep but there is just one reason to smile- "YOU". My sweetheart, you are the closest to my soul and the euphoria in the weakest times of mine. I cannot believe, being with me makes you fall for me every time. You have a puddle with a depth and yet you're too engrossed in dealing with my anguish, is that what you call love?