As my Muse slowly started toddling back to health…

The Existentialist’s Pride

-Thought- and Grief–so familiar to each other-
But more silent than silence to confess to each other-
The ravishes they conspire and do to her together.

Still she unlistens her world from its ever heaving heaviness
Bears it all bare -imparted- more alone than alone
It takes much pride to break her promise-
To keep her crystal shine pristine self away from it.
And she fights the existential blight with the unyielding shield
Never let the world know her woe-
Was ‘must’ for her woe-

I bore you two long ago in this little sag of memories
For the thinking men say-
-‘thought and grief are the responses of memory’-
So cozy they stay in the sunlight hours
I leave you there all through the city hours
Silent and smooth rolled in my velvety quilt
I leave you there with my lonely guilt
To keep you from my toiling silt.
And then there is this time
Of the dying sun unleashing your chime
With me squelching in nocturnal slime
And then there is no rush or shush or hush
When slowness is in its lush
When memory exuberant fattening the blush
There you bounce out sentient in my bloom
That I wail and writhe in pain in gloom
You tormenting me in an ever winding loom
And still I keep you so safe - so loved-
Though you spurned my peace long ago and still so proud
For I am the human to forgive and you –the Gods- the love- rightful to be left unkilled.
For never let the world know her woe-
Was ‘must’ for her woe.

Such Habits...

To search beauty in others-
-Is a habit that can be slowly nurtured
To constantly navigate from one positive to another
To erase the received injuries that mortified you
To abnegate your ego
To sublimate one’s disappointment for something larger
Like a well-made philosophical argument like:
“To be dispassionate and stand offish to oneself
In the precipice of gelid truths”
Where you lose yourself in the enticing beauty of such words
And to embrace the heart at the other end.

But at some point you might realize
Or get shockingly awakened to the sheer ugliness
Of how you made everything of yours expendable.
It’s almost like a fish who thrived cozily-
In its delusional fluid where it felt it was home
But where at any time a bait-
In the shape of a fly or flesh
Can hook you with its savoury charm
To pull you out from your self-made truths and lies
To something that is intolerable and unbreathable.

Isn’t it always fatal to have such momentary distractions?
To quietly face oneself?
To acknowledge your regressions?
To not to cover but to heal?
And by the time YOU want to celebrate YOU
You simply have to be released into the water,
For you are so accustomed to some veneers
That you think you are not made for any other surfaces.
You see-
Once something is a habit, it is not dispensable.