Life of a Freethinker- A Personal Narrative
The arc, times when love is spectacular and hate is blind-no matter the time or what of time if everything around me is an unrelated game. She walks there like love is a game and sex is nothing but an unfurnished door, unwilling to shelter the pieces of humanity left here. O blasphemy of the race, there is no love, and all that is-a nation forming out of promiscuous dust.
A day in the life of a poet, I lived to see the inconsistencies of today. The rainbows are in delusion and the skin is plastered to the walls that once bled. I thought that life was to be a beautiful gift, only to be overwhelmed by depressive sonnets whose melody is beyond my imaginations. Look at my insides, I do not even look at myself in the mirror anymore.
I heard a loud noise over the vulgar clouds, the angels look at me like I’m an imposter. But look at me, lying here like a dead log, for the art- I know that neither angels nor demons exist. And all that is-the construct in our minds that is overly deceiving. Been sitting here for the last twenty three years, hungry and depressed-there isn’t anything left of humanity that will please. Everyone is willing if its greed and loyalty is a thin layer of ice placed to the center of the sun-asking of us to believe that it will never depart. O ravishing skin of ice-I believe you.
But I never did believe in humans or the pointless benches placed such rhythmically. It feels like the mind wants to escape-for the tyranny that is omnipresent, even the so called gods could never fathom. My mind is trying to think, of all that will never- and the heart is nothing but a fragment of muscle that was once loved. It takes years, and for me to dance at my own death day, I learnt that I need to be at contempt with this life right now.
Such merry of the three day crowds, they know nothing of rejection. The indecent posters on the wall, no one wants me to see- they say that I’m still on the last page. O sire, I am but a child whose parents never knew him, and I’m glad that it happened, for the art of such seclusion makes me feel real for once in this life. Everyone wears a mask, trying hard to make use of me and my resources, I wonder if there were ever a single human being who did not try to make use of me.
For my shadows and the brief gala across the untouched street, they stare at me like I have killed my ownself. But you human, all that you do is slaughter animals and make merry with your family every Saturday. Death of the last dear, the family celebrates and thanks God. Did God, (if he even exists) ever want that animal to be slaughtered such brutally?
Something’s are never meant to be understood, of all that is so unfair, the rays of life are the most difficult to comprehend. My chest aches and my skin makes me sick, the winds have been defeated and poison is the name of each sane evening. The laughter inside the room is incomprehensible, and my room, well they have burnt every script inside it because the society does not want freethinkers.
O pretty faces of May, have you ever tried to think-of all that is so unfair with life, and why is it that one has to smile in return for ten million souls to have to suffer, pointless darkness-the walls are never there to protect. And what is humanity, the last act of it, slowly shattered by the new disease.
