matter, substance, meaning… as my vocabulary expanded with such words, i knew, i had an inkling that this is how i would be disillusioned, with such small words i would be driven to despair.
i would find there is another face behind every smile, and that some of those upturned lips are just empty coffins. a smile so sad, a wordless lie so easily becomes the most normal thing.
but do i even want to know who lives behind such elaborate masks? do i care to know how they breathe? do i want to know who breathes in me? or whether anyone really care about me?
i knew that now, given that i have learnt to ask all the questions whose answers can’t be verified, living and trusting was bound to become harder. now that i knew that i am not capable of knowing myself, seeing my reflection was bound to get painful and confusing. confusion is such a small word for what life does to us. all the small words that are easily said than meant- i hope i forget them before i forget myself.
Hand me back my fear. Remove all signs of caution. Anyway, I am dying slowly. I don’t want to know more. I don’t want to know better. Come into my mind. Here there is no better. There are only picture frames that do not break even when they have lost the images they lived for. It is not the persisting lack in me that makes me feel hollow. It is the life remaining in my dying organs, all the reasons that I have for living, my willingness to invent a reason if needed. All the substance that hides my lacking highlights the vacancy in me.
I am writing this poem because for an hour my mind is butchering every beautiful thing in the world to get that one line that can finish the thirst of this page. And nothing beautiful remains beautiful when such desperate hands hack at it, cut it into grotesque chunks and then fail terribly when trying to stuff them into these mascots figures, these alphabets. I call this a poem because I can call it nothing else. I call this a poem because years ago a naive me reached the conclusion that the only way a moment can live on, a feeling can be recorded, without the burden of the reason of its existence is if it becomes a poem and because the current me doesn’t know how to deal with myself, the current me knows nothing but to write, and has nothing of substance that moves it’s heart. And I fear myself for the ease with which I refer to myself as ‘it’, only because I became useless for few minutes. I end up documenting my fear of becoming empty, of becoming blind, and calling it a poem. I end up felling helpless in newer ways and I am forced to call it a new beginning because giving every sorrow a beautiful name is all that I capable of.