Meaning

In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

When you’re alone

Is steadfast but haste to make,
In mute but bird is sung heart,
Nor better is walking this day ought,
For brew in beer and sung in wine is day,
Little by little, hopes and dreams unfold,
Some day, there was a wild boar to chase
That never ended with hearts unfold; so
Take this time to grieve the loss of dread,
So fear the loss of utmost dread, and never
Call the heathens that bake your soul today.
I call myself alone because I am a heathen,
I am a murderer of my own soul who begs mercy,
Thinking back at all the life I could have had,
At some point in childhood I remember saying no,
And some point I remember knowing what I didn’t,
But looking at the stars I can see a light:
The Universe is enveloped in the womb of darkness,
When all is woe, when all is without hope, know that
All that comes out of the darkness becomes existence;
For you are existence, and your lonely is a reality.
When your story ends on the final note with no remorse,
That alone has more value than a copy of the original.
When it is time to say goodbye, remember the story.

*

Hold your breath,
In the midst of life,
Amidst all the crisis,
No matter where you are,
Count till veins burst,
Walk the Earth and Stars,
Blackest night your light,
God shall always remain.

Her Realisation

All the illusions at waiting glass,
The road in steady wait at last,
In sounds new the concrete slab,
The walking steps in echoing fall,
A lingering thought in bitter waste,
A woman’s life in a single pill,
Tears silent breeze to take,
Hue in light of mirror forsake,
Surreal, the casting charms to soar,
Ere the head bows Fate’s disgrace,
Her purpose soon come to grace.

One Man Road

All the days that come of yore,
No hour to pass with single bore,
I kicked the stones on my path,
The air I breathed made me cough,
All the nights I lone long for walk,
Ere the nights kiss mine art to talk
With stars in shuddered whisper
Can hold not never with this pair
Of blood-boiled hands no ice can stay, Read More

Finding Myself again

At some point I decided to enter a spherical room covered in a single mirror. At the epicentre of the sphere at the bottom was a single light in circular shape. It illumined through a translucent glass which neither blinded nor shaped the way I feel at the very sight of my own reflection. I was imprisoned here. It was now my home. So it was, and so my ugly face was to blame; for my soul was trapped inside this feeble figure which I call a body which served no purpose whatsoever. Nor could I wed. Nor could I love. Nor could I hate. Nor could I live. I wanted to die. I wanted to suddenly disappear. An hour would pass and I almost forgot how I entered this room or why I entered it in the first place. It was almost like an escape pod onboard a ship, in a distant star system; in this space, in this hour, half my life was kept, half my life shall rise again – so rise above the stars. The more I distance myself away from society, the more human I am; the more time I spend in the stars, the more I see myself for what I truly am. Read More

Broken Words

These words once I knew so soft,
As truth as known what could never beat,
The hand that takes my heart to sea,
Along the resting shore an hour resides,
Along the darkening glee no words replace,
That of every drop of night came flooding
The tears bestowed this sea flows above.
Moon, more my walks ‘neath its gaze leap,
More the waves to sign mine eyes at rest,
Who could not bear a sight so high this late
With drooping lids so shelter our holy rain.
This art I try but no gain I am but spent,
Withstood the words that long I wrote
Became the shadow of the words I ought be,
Then for each line a wave will wash away,
Ere no escape reels me from light to scorn,
Before I give my dues back for better born.