Work-In-Progress

Forget irritation that scalds your very skin.

Forget wounds that make you bleed.

Forget pain that licks your bones. 

When sadness and disappointment make love with impunity upon your soul and leaves its marks for the world to gawk on, you lose your footing. You twist and fall in a heap with the world around you dancing erotically in sensuous swings. When the world around you proclaims victory, and you’re miserable; when the dice hit a 6 on every roll but yet you end up on the start line, there is no space between you and your mind to squeeze in even a fraction of Hope.

Hope that was once the priced armour in your arsenal, now is the thorny suit that encloses you in a numb state where only desperate measures and half-baked solutions seep in.

The world conspires while you sit with your head bowed and your shoulders round. You attract all the world’s distractions in the form of sublime caprice and you start looking for structures where you’ll never find it. 

You will rhyme words, and expect poetry; you will write random phrases, end up making sentences, and expect it to turn into prose that’ll sky rocket you to the fame of your idols. You’ll imagine words flow out your pen and lay at your command; whether to curve themselves into poetry or to slavishly become a story of your life.

You try it all and in your dreams, you succeed. 

But when you wake up, you find your dreams demolished around you. Your ‘real’ life attacks you and maims you into submission, into a slave, for where is the time that you seek to hone your skill and to metaphorise your life into poetry and stories. That numbness makes you silently acquiesce and nod your head to lack of time, to responsibilities that pain you, but are integral to your life and for your loved ones.

You excuse yourself out of ‘work’ and into ‘home’ where the wall that you wanted to turn into a bookcase screams and crumbles itself into a wall with someone else’s desire. Somone else is not an enemy; it’s a friend who would help you if you let it. You don’t.

For it is your battle you wage on principles that only you have learnt by rote; that only you have memorised and the rules don’t exist elsewhere. Your mother, your father, your wife and your friends see you dissolve into a heap of beliefs and dreams; they see you die a little every time you speak of what you would rather do, but you don’t let them help.

It’s your war.

One day this will all be a blip on the world’s radar, but to the ones you leave behind, there will be a chasm of pain and silent tears.

The principles that you lived by might be worthy, but nothing reeks of dishonour than empathy for the souls who would rather help you than see you melt away in your private hell.

Siddiqui F.
(08.08.2017)

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