I firmly believe there is no life after death. Death is final. It is just dust to dust and ashes to ashes. But the travails of life and of living have me on my knees bowing to any force above to help me redeem myself and reform my life.
My greatest fear is life as much as death. I used to fear being lost in insanity forever. But now I fear losing life without finding myself worthy of life or love. Diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, I am on lithium medication and have had quite a few episodes of insanity stretching from being months together to just a couple of days. Each time I come out of the episodes with some memory intact. Even if I believe in God, I don’t believe in the devil. I can’t subscribe to a theory of a superior force being evil. A miracle makes you believe in good and in God.
But what of the memories I have of recent episodes that showed me little bad and inimical magic tricks to hinder me. I just can’t classify them as mere hallucinations when their residual effects are all around. Whatever it is I have to suppress it deep within myself. Accepting God to me might mean accepting insanity.
I have to start afresh after each episode. I end up in the start line halfway through the race. Can’t I not finish at least one race to call myself worthy of this life, worthy of love?
I am a man of thoughts
but without words or actions
what use, thoughts, mere farts.
I believe I can triumph over we,
but where and who am I,
ever fleeing, am I just a flea?
that won’t bite or die;
days lengthen and so do nights
go without toil,
while victors share the spoil,
I am lost in inner fights;
Do I have a place in the we
do I really belong any place at all
I ponder over nightly hours in the wee
without true pride is there no fall?
whatever I am is not for today,
may be tomorrow is my day.
They say fickle is fame
yet can’t extinguish the flame,
the fire within refuses to burn out,
runs out of bounds stout;
why bother about the million
when can’t enthral the numbered few,
ever a spectator in the pavilion
away from distant cries and hue;
lacking talent and even will
making myself a fool,
never ready for the kill
yet for fame my drool;
heard about poker billionaire
but what of a player like me in solitaire.
I wrote for me
I wrote for her
wrote and wrote to be
without a care;
till the day came to pass
where my writing had to pause
without a comment or like
the pen went on a strike;
my motive is impure
that is for sure
I seek from her, a platitude
but she never gives any latitude;
I am not human but a tail wagging dog
seeking a pat or a bone through the fog.
I pine alone feasting through Valentine’s day’s plough,
but what of the multitude fasting for the lent,
if it only where possible for someone to dent
my solitude, even if it means just momentous lent love.
A day like this ended a year before
without cheer or much uproar,
it tore my heart even then
to be locked alone in this pen;
if love and romance is sweet nectar
being unloved and single is worse than tar,
a fact hammered down one’s throat
on each valentine’s day, a severe drought;
this day too shall pass like others,
yet the intense pain, none surpass;
as the day dawns, so does the truth
that forever alone will I be, uncouth;
yes, love transcends romance
but how and who will end my lonely dance.