Life, right now

Okay, it’s been a long time coming. It’s strange how this place used to be a repository of all my horrid experiences in life and how it provided me refuge from the insurmountable grief of being alive and wading through the darkness of my mind, and how I stopped doing that entirely, focusing instead on something that came out to mean a lot to me. For a change, I am reverting to the original intent behind everything, perhaps behind every word I have ever written.

I know and I acknowledge that living is not easy. My college education made me aware of the social condition of so many people and communities all over the world. My experiences pale in comparison to those who struggle to even survive — death, illness, starvation, violence, war, et al. govern their lives and their actions every minute. I am so privileged to have a roof over my head, regular meals and clean drinking water to keep my body alive, healthcare provisions when I am sick and financial support for basic amenities and some leisure. How I live may deem to be luxurious by many and I am often ashamed of that. I try to be politically and socially conscious, raise my voice in whatever way I can against destitution and exploitation, and care about people around me. This is of course not enough.

I am not enough, even when I have all these privileges and luxuries. I am constantly fighting my own self, my own condition, my own mind, my life which seems to be adamant at breaking me down. Perhaps I am complicit in this internal violence. And it hurts at times. Otherwise, I have in a way blocked myself from feeling, from dealing with my own emotions or expressing them in a way which is direct and confrontational. So, I am doing this to try to undo my own resistance to the acceptance of my condition. Intrusive thoughts are a part and parcel of my everyday existence — panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and social anxiety are so inundated in me that I no longer heed my own pain.

Yes, I had to deal with some situations and circumstances which have left a deep impact on me, made me snivel and cry in the corner of my bedroom, holding my own self to get through the hour and the day. ‘One day at a time’: I had come to believe that as a dictum to help me through every day. What a limited condition to keep alive!

I finally had some control because I was busy for three years with my education. There were times when I would find myself in a dark chasm, but I could find my way out, find a light at the periphery of my vision and get on with it. Since completing that, it’s been three months and it seems I am back to where I was. Life has come a complete circle and I am still reeling from the things I had come to ignore and bury within my psyche.

I am not doing good. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I find myself not caring about it. Incidentally, a friend brought it to my attention after a pitiful thing happened to me today. She said that I am displaced from some solace the routine had provided me and that I am giving up now and that is making it worse. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I may be giving up on everything, and not just my career or romance or other sensory experiences.

And yet, I am not able to do anything about it. I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore. At least I am waking up every day, trying to read and write, having one or two meals, drinking plenty of water…

I am putting it all out there just for the small comfort that I am sharing it. How I always have this need to be understood! This is the only thing that keeps me going, for now, to be able to express and reflect upon my own breaking.

That is all.

small comforts

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.

small comforts are the packages of distrust
in my bulging shirt-pocket, hanging by
its last threads —

i am a tea kettle, stationary as a decor,
another plaything of the gentry — ideas
pushed into my gut like a day-old
pastry — stringent, decadent, slightly off,

i am a damp kitchen towel of moderate
temperatures — calescent on the fore-
head, dizzy with the worry of a fresh
lack of sickness — rich, sweet, a little off,

i am a window curtain kneeling on
the tartan floor — the warm breeze sets in
and moves around in its obvious rhythm of
convalescence — swift, heavy, switched off,

— i take small comforts through the nights,
carry them along the crooked lines, one
inclined thread hanging by the other.

.

Image source: Ragina Bogat, This Way That, 1990

For MLM Menagerie’s Wordle. Also linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

an ocean story

down the lanes of persistence and sweat,
there are waves lapping at the mind’s cliff,
seeking restoration of things wild and vain,

I see with my squid eyes the promulgation
of morrows bound to my brows, lives are tarnished
by the salt of this ocean of continuity, despite
a range of cul de sacs of mediocrity,

I ache to parch my thirst through drowning,
I seek virtues in the bleeding sun touched by
paints of this allegory. I have seen tempests
and treacheries, I have witnessed moats
of luxury, and the contrasts that lie within
these stories.

the vastness doesn’t exemplify loss but transcends it
into a lonesome lore,
I can feel the brush of drops and sand coming
awash, on my face, as my limbs stretch out
to become the shore, where

sirens sing and muses muse a melancholic hymn,

a reverie is lost and found, thus becoming –

it was meant to lose itself in turquoise ripples,
for the fates of my nature and your culture
are misaligned.

.
Linking it up with Midweek Motif at Poets United
*16 June: Linking it up with dVerse OLN

Instagram: mypeculiarself
Facebook: @aaha12345

Yarn of Life

Yarn (copyright- me)

Yarn (copyright- me)

yarn of life,

she weaves through her old frail hands,

one day be made into a cardigan

or may be a woolen cap of a young boy’s wonder,

she remains behind the scene,

yarn slipping through her hands,

silky-smooth threads,

.

she is happiness,

she is love,

she is struggle,

she is survival,

she is the artisan,

she sits in a reverie,

her eyes focused,

as she sutures the yarn of life,

in her old frail hands.

.

*For Right2Write Prompt. Just click on the name and that will take you to the prompt theme of the week.

Takenoko/Bamboo Shoots Haiku

going up and up

reaching for eternity

rigid, tall and straight

.

evergreen bamboo

shoots cut down and thinly sliced

boiled, to feast upon

.

survival circles

displayed around the body

every few inches

.

ward off the evil

takenoko surrounding

lonely Shinto shrine

.

wet and slippery

showered in the morning rain

a bamboo-poet writes

.

a childish cutter

gash shining stalk of bamboo

emerge moon goddess

.

shedding those gold tears

watching in pain, her moon world

born from bamboo stalk

* Written for Carpe Diem # 217 Takenoko/Bamboo Shoots

* The last two haiku are derived from a Japanese folktale; The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter. I came to know about it in a Japanese cartoon show once.