I am not weird

It’s your lack of knowledge that makes you think I’m weird and unfit.

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How poets own their lives

Have you ever heard of a job that needs employees to write poems and fiction?

I haven’t. This kind of worked cannot be forced. It cannot be even be taught. It can only be improved for the better or worse. It still sells, though. By this I mean, the writer or the poet is the ruler and nobody can tell the writer what to write. This is why many poets and writers die of hunger. But remember that they made nobody responsible for it. The owned it like they owned each and every element of their lives. They surrendered to their art alone.

Pursuit of a passion

I do not buy the idea of pursuing a passion in hope for success. Success is arbitrary. It sounds not only exhausting but also selfish to me to place your mammoth of an effort on that fifty percent chance of “I may” by ripping it apart from “I may not”. Instead I found a better way.

I often find myself wondering and analysing most of the time on subjects of culture, human nature, the characters they are, ideas, places, and in short existentialism. I do feel exhausted at times but I never ask why I must continue doing this. I do it naturally, inadvertently, without my own knowledge.

I do it with an inane belief that I’ll never finish. I will never finish. This is the truest thing about this pursuit. This, in fact, is true of anything. You’ll never finish but then you will reach a place where you will rejoice on having experienced something uncomparable and magical for a moment or so. This is all it is about. This would perhaps be some fleeting moments of divinity where you’ll lose yourself to an abstract idea or thought, the way I am experiencing it now, or you’ll have achieved a tiny worldly success that will elevate you in the eyes of some people, making them look up to you in awe. The latter should hardly matter because someone else in times to come will take it over from you and nobody will be able to deny it. Somebody will have a more appealing representation of your ideas in the times to come and even though your work is timeless, you will feel bitter about your work being compared to anybody else’s work because your obsession with your work was special and private. The former is part of the process and will stick with you till you last, making you break yourself for yet another such experience, making you obsessed with the passion even more. This should matter to you no matter how many people you know who do not believe in you. This will render your art immeasurable.

Ambition is a thing but freedom from it is an unparalleled fun. It is not about winning and very few great artists have had a nemesis, their competition being with themselves.

This will free you because this is what anybody with a passion for his work is looking for. Freedom.

Kill and save

Who would have thought that I’d, after a long time, think of you in the morning and the rains would rush down on me (in) the evening?
Obviously it matters to everyone, the first rain.
But sorrow is our terrain, and it is by our honest laughter that it is claimed.
There is another story of you never showing up, but the rains filling you in. At times, I have wondered,
have my prayers always lost their way in my world of killings and war?
Prison guards stand before you, numb and shy.
Were you not a soldier?
Prisoners we are all. Prisoners we will remain while the moods we entertain, as we look up to the soldiers we’ve dreamed to be
in the remains of our freedom we once had.
And here I lie in wait that the sun will kill with its heat those who deserted us amid cries and sleeplessness.
But the rain comes with your thought and it is for us all.
Were you not a soldier who could kill and save?
When was your repertoire “save all”?
And there you sit with your head between your knees, and the prisoners before you stand, numb and shy.
And you ask, isn’t the sun too far and how does the rain feel?

The breath of my city

The breath of my city is paired with noise. When you have stepped down the train, you meet poor kids and diseased men, pregnant women and disabled old men, kids wrapped in gauze and soiled cotton. The city is so full and rackety that these beggars have to shout and sing and hit the highest notes they can to pull your attention. Hearing them is like hearing nothing at all.

Sadly there is little compassion left if you see the same faces begging every day in the same conditions. They don’t even change roles. The kids keep crying, men and women keep singing and begging for the same reasons day on day, week on week.
The noise doesn’t seem to settle, makes no such promise. There are kiwi and grape sellers, fruit cake sellers, shoe and shirt sellers, mosquito-repellent sellers, auto-rickshaws for hire, all screaming at you, as if they know you are craving and they have it for you.