Of course I care. How couldn’t I? I’m connected. As much as I feel confined by the chains that we all call connection, a connected world, this connected universe, I’d reckon it’s magic lies in brining happiness and peace. This ain’t it. I don’t see that somedays. I feel bound by it. It constricts me. I’m not free. Why? I ask myself. Isn’t a sense of awareness , a state of declared awakening not sufficient to feel liberated? Unfortunately, the irony of the moment beckons. It is very much that sense of awareness, that conscious observation of wicked tongues of words without reason that keeps me chained. I could pretend to not care and force myself to an exiled liberation. I’m not there either. I feel compelled to care and so I endure judgement and persecution that not so surprisingly is also a figment of my imagination. Does anyone care enough about me to pry into my life? I wouldn’t know and I wouldn’t dare ignore that possibility. It all boils down to the fact that consciously, I’ve made that choice to care.
Obscurity is a means to convey what the heart wants and is a means to escape from social persecution. Obscurity is a madman’s euphoric bliss. It means everything and in a way, it amounts to nothing. I shall brave defying that obscurity. I shall show spine and courage in calling out the demon that has plagued me for the longest. The demon that had brought me the gift of sight. Along with it came misery, wrapped in an inconspicuous package. How could I know the price of the gift back then? How can I continue to remain oblivious to the toll it takes on my sanity and my heart? I ache for that liberation. I shall have it tonight.
Every poet needs his pain. If I had to stay politically correct then I’d rephrase that as, It is through pain, one can express art of the highest emotional quality. Expressionism becomes a means to channelize that pain and give it colors and give it a meaningful life. I’m no exception to that pain. In fact, I’ve come to accept that I’ve had a lion’s share of that pain and in return, I feel that curse that has blessed me with the gift of music and words. I feel lucky for the fact that I have avenues to vent out the woes of an heart in crimson tears.
Very little things have surprised me most of my life. When it came to the matters of the heart, there have been absolutely no bloody surprises there. I’ve had the gift of sight. I could always manage to prophesize the end. I’ve always seen that road of void and loneliness. It has never been the separation that has left me miserable. I had trouble accepting it and moving on. In retrospect , and strangely, as a note to self, I find myself reminding me that I have never gone wrong in seeing how things would run their course and conclude.
Am I special? Am I gifted with a sensory perception that defines the natural order of things? Actually nope. I’m observant and deep down, I’ve always stayed abreast of my insecurities. I’ve had fears. Fears would go on to manifest into thoughts and thoughts conspire actions and actions , yes they orchestrate the realities of things to be.
Having made the same mistakes , quite a few many times, I spared a thought in understanding how I had always managed to find myself in the spot where I see the end and I see tears and misery down my road. I think our choices are cyclic to a great extent. We have our preferences, we know our hearts , we realize what that we desire. The big game changer in the play happens to be choices that we’d often refuse to make.
Only this time around, I enabled myself to make different choices. The pain is still there. The misery is still there but I’ve not reduced myself to roubles this time around. The beauty of awareness kicks in. I started off on that prophetic vision of impending fracture. My fears took control. I cried wolf for the longest. The many words of many a hearts were soothing to my ears, but they couldn’t console a heart that had a firm conviction in what it believed.
As the courses ran, the fears came true. Only this time the choices branched out. Do I see myself as the fool who saw a dystopic heart? Do I view myself over what it really was? Expendable lives. The fault in the stars and the faults in our faith, against all confirmation bias, it was time to recover.
I do feel cheated. There is nothing out there that robs me of my heart and thoughts and integrity. There is always something within me, that keeps reminding me of my worth. The meek vile voice reminds me where I should stand. It sees very little of me. I was a slave to it’s gentle voice. I defy it these days. It’s a battle that’s hard. I question my worth every now and then. I find answers in my sweat. I find comforts in my words and music. I don’t have much, but that’s all that I have.
As I said, I do feel cheated. Not because I waged losing war. It’s in me to feel cheated, it’s I who let myself be the desolate one. I’ve never forgiven myself for choosing to be fragile. It’s a tricky spot. Do I grow a stone for a heart, stay immune to cracks ? Do I endure the fracture and wage more wars that I deem are going to fail? Am I more human by distancing myself from human emotions? Am I weak because I let myself walk into failures?
It has always been a life worth doing shit. You do a little, you get burnt, you gain memories of smiles and tears. You put on a mask of bravery, repeat the process again. How could I complain about the scars left behind? Each scar has morphed into many tales that melts my heart, that helps me cry rivers, that helps me breathe life into characters and lets me play god who ordains their fate. My sound of music is also the screams of my scars. How could I complain about them? What am I, If I don’t even have them?
Do I manage a last laugh on account of having seen it all, or do I hide behind tears because they are but only true now? As I mull over questions galore, It’s probably time for new sights to be seen, new futures to foresee and new choices to make.