The sun has peeped back into the city but the night isn’t over yet.
The buses have started running and the walls have started trembling.
The greybeards continue to sing hymns in praise of creation, of flowers, leaves, colours and wings.
The kitchen sink is clogged with morsels of hurried meals, and the water overflows into the pristine white palace, until the carpets smell of stale food and floors are slippery with dirt.
The claws of the hard metal monster dig a pattern of holes into the reverie and move out in search of another meat.
I peer out of them and gape wide at the desert and slowly die the death of my dreams.
How many more lives must the ghost live through,
until he is free of form?
Clothe him with velvet, comb and colour his hair, tie his feet into leather boots and send him to the stage.
When he looks at the heads of people standing out like the chunks of concrete by the seaside, he will go to sleep and live his dream.
Mother, you are pushing me away.
I am not a yoyo.
I am more like a legless runner who needs to be drugged into sleep so that he can run his dreams and thus hold his reality together.
Father, I need a father, and not a friend who lived my life long before I was born.
Apples and bananas staring at me in the dark
Water washing my pain backwards
My favorite plaything waiting for a new admirer
Smelly socks hanging in testimony to a life still being lived
Testimony to a war still waiting to be fought
While the warrior stares at the spider and interprets it in a manner not intended.
There is a rapist and a racist in all of us
Waiting to avenge private angst, hoping for forgiveness from the lord of temporal justice;
but the Lord slips and falls while running to save us from slipping away.
So we fall. So we scream. So we fear of landing nowhere.
and start seeing the light in our minds reeking of above.
Fantasies get foggy and wooden desks shine in vengeful arrogance
Visions of pedestrians haunt the man hiding in the hills till he tires of escapades and noises like No, Nah, Naa and other words that start with N and sound queer to the painter of splendor.
In this trance of cruel music, cliffs erode; iron smelts and crystalline voices invade the earth.
The man coughs. The woman cries. Their children kill each other.
Or, the man drives away. The woman burns herself. Their children become poets.
The universe confounds itself and yet, threatens to burst if the kaleidoscopes disobey their pre-ordained course of rotation, revolution, etc.
Fear of losing the illusion.
Fear of losing the painter.
Fear of losing the man and the woman who used to sing praises of people they never met.
Fear of losing things they never had.
Fear of meeting people they may have killed.
Fear of finding bones they may have buried.
Fear of seeing papers they may have burnt.
I am incapable of fear, fun, food, and refresh buttons.
This is not my story.
Cigarette smoking is injurious to health.
Alcohol consumption is injurious to health.
Junk food is injurious to health.
Coke is injurious to health.
Carelessness is injurious to health.
A bad memory is injurious to health.
Stress is injurious to health.
Work is injurious to health.
Ageing is injurious to health.
Death is injurious to health.
Life is its own terminal disease, and still the fools try to convert human beings into mortals, when human beings are definitely meant to immortal!
Yes, I promise you that.
Listen to the child weeping and look at him banging his skull against the walls of the washroom,
and then stepping out into the bright sunny yellow world of giggles and innocent curiosity
and surviving the long walk back home across the road lined with crowded shops and parked cars carrying families on their Sunday-outings.
There is no home where he goes but he gets another washroom with four walls at least, and that’s enough for a child of his height.
He would remain there for the rest of his life, for lack of a machine gun to kill everyone with.
Bruises burn deeper and deeper till the bones are dry and hollow.
Yet the planet carries on with its successful fraud.