I am leaving now. I simply cannot go on. Its’ too painful. Every step hurts. With every step I get scared about my future. I am racked with self-doubt and defeat. And yet I am not brave enough or stupid enough to kill myself. I want to leave all my cares behind me and walk away while I am still sane. Leave every vestige of the last world behind me, as if it never existed. I shall take no money, no material possession except the clothes on my back. I shall forget everything that I have learnt, every useful skill that countless others have laboured in vain to instruct me. For I believe that all of this is useless. I need a new identity, a new reason to exist.
I have failed my life. My hopes, aspirations and dreams are dead now. Of what use is a man who cannot dream about a better future? An existence without a purpose or desire to dream about a better tomorrow is pointless. It is better to stop existing.
I go to my death. My body shall survive…. in a way. But my spirit and mind shall never walk again. I shall shed every trace of my life behind me. I shall forget every friend I ever made, every relationship I was ever part of. I shall walk unfettered and unburdened free of every obligation which I ever walked into. No desire or hope is strong enough to stop me or even persuade me to ever change my mind and return.
This may not be a suicide note. But really is there much of a difference. This is the last time I shall ever read or write, the last time I shall attempt to ever lead a normal life. I do not want to be found. I seek anonymity. I even leave my name and identity behind me.
I may be a coward. I may be spineless. I do not care about the memory I leave behind me. I do not seek an elegy. It would be pointless now. The only thing that I know for sure is that I am weary of the struggle. I cannot stand and face everything that comes against me.
Heroes are for children’s fairytales. Life definitely isn’t one.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Where it all began
A child clambered down his school bus. Skipping literally. Kindergarden school is a horrible thing for a 2 year old. Bullies, sadistic teachers, stupid little furry toys, forced mealtimes where some self-styled popular chap steals your food just to see you cry. Well you get the picture. No wonder he was glad to escape from it all.
After all home was in an idyllic little forest, miles outside the small smelly city. All green and beautiful. You should have been there when it rained. Pearl like drops clambering down every vine, every flower. The child stayed in a rambling place amidst oceans of sheer garden. Sometimes he would just sit in the little porch and watch it rain. Sigh...
There were roses, and poppy, colourful marigold, sweet smelling jasmine, heavenly tulips and those huge fruit trees which he loved to climb. And well there always was the TV and those delightful scissors which he could use to snip off everything around him when he was down in the blues.
He had no friends around him - nor did he need any. His father, a genius of kinds had made it big in life quite early actually. And hence he got to stay with people so much older than him, whose children had already left their parents. Soldierly old men and fat miserable aunties surrounded the kid. And still all was bliss.
Pottering around the nooks and crevices of the endless patch of the garden was fun. Sneaking around butterflies, exotic birds, an occasional mongoose or two. Oh yes and his little mite of a sister. Could things get any better?
Sometimes those horrible relatives of his father turned up. Oh your mom is too uppity and so are you. Well the kid could be mean when he wanted and he paid back in kind quite often. Boy did he have an awful temper.
Sometimes he got to go to the sea in his mom's place. Freaking out in the old library attic, poring over the Sherlock Holmeses, Agatha Christies, Treasure Islands and all the golden stuff. His imagination would steal away. If only he had a pirate's cutlass what a swashbuckling figure he would cut. Everything in life was a glorious adventure, waiting to be unravelled. Chasing after the countless monkeys who clambered around grandpa's terrace and to sliding down the ledges and literally unreachable nooks. Those indeed were exciting times. Need we mention mutton chops at the beach when he got to sit by the shore amidst sand castles watching the waves sweep past his feet.
The happiest years really.
After all home was in an idyllic little forest, miles outside the small smelly city. All green and beautiful. You should have been there when it rained. Pearl like drops clambering down every vine, every flower. The child stayed in a rambling place amidst oceans of sheer garden. Sometimes he would just sit in the little porch and watch it rain. Sigh...
There were roses, and poppy, colourful marigold, sweet smelling jasmine, heavenly tulips and those huge fruit trees which he loved to climb. And well there always was the TV and those delightful scissors which he could use to snip off everything around him when he was down in the blues.
He had no friends around him - nor did he need any. His father, a genius of kinds had made it big in life quite early actually. And hence he got to stay with people so much older than him, whose children had already left their parents. Soldierly old men and fat miserable aunties surrounded the kid. And still all was bliss.
Pottering around the nooks and crevices of the endless patch of the garden was fun. Sneaking around butterflies, exotic birds, an occasional mongoose or two. Oh yes and his little mite of a sister. Could things get any better?
Sometimes those horrible relatives of his father turned up. Oh your mom is too uppity and so are you. Well the kid could be mean when he wanted and he paid back in kind quite often. Boy did he have an awful temper.
Sometimes he got to go to the sea in his mom's place. Freaking out in the old library attic, poring over the Sherlock Holmeses, Agatha Christies, Treasure Islands and all the golden stuff. His imagination would steal away. If only he had a pirate's cutlass what a swashbuckling figure he would cut. Everything in life was a glorious adventure, waiting to be unravelled. Chasing after the countless monkeys who clambered around grandpa's terrace and to sliding down the ledges and literally unreachable nooks. Those indeed were exciting times. Need we mention mutton chops at the beach when he got to sit by the shore amidst sand castles watching the waves sweep past his feet.
The happiest years really.
Pondspeak
My poetry is pathetic...Well I believe that. Its' indivualistic, it wallows in self-pity and yes its' unnecessarily depressing. But do I really care! My writing is a means to express myself - to let out my displeasure, my pent-up sorrows. Would I kill myself if I didn't pour it out? I guess not. I am not brave enough. I hate myself. Why am I such a spineless worm? Why do I always have to apologise to every Tom, Dick and Harry? I cannot even stand up to my so-called friends, leave alone enemies.
I was the success meant to be. A child prodigy waiting to be unleashed upon the world. Someone who was supremely confident to stop the world if need be. Nothing could check me. St. Stephen's at 17, IIM at 20, Goldman and Lehman fighting for me even before I turned 21. The world at my feet and I waiting to trample all over it.
Today even my closest friends whisper behind my back. He has no committment. He's a drunken loser. He doesn't know anything, He's a contrarian. Just follow the opposite of what he says and you will make money. He's a hypocrite, a self-conceited confidently wrong shallow person.
I haven't smiled since ages. I haven't been happy since a really long time. And well I am truly alone. How did it come to this? I feel all this is a really bad dream. I shall wake up the next moment safe in my room in Anga, shake my head over the utterly unrealistic dream and go for the Ecosoc meeting. Wish life was that simple. Wish I hadn't screwed up. I wish I wasn't such a simpleton, such a dunderhead.
A drowning man clutches at any straw that he can grasp. I find only twigs, weak feeble ones, which only flatter to deceive. One moment I think I am out of the mire and the next I sink again into the bottomless depth, sputtering to breathe. I really wish I could swim.
The dark age is upon us.
And it is before the dawn of our time
That the doom of my life is upon me
How did it ever come to this?
I was the success meant to be. A child prodigy waiting to be unleashed upon the world. Someone who was supremely confident to stop the world if need be. Nothing could check me. St. Stephen's at 17, IIM at 20, Goldman and Lehman fighting for me even before I turned 21. The world at my feet and I waiting to trample all over it.
Today even my closest friends whisper behind my back. He has no committment. He's a drunken loser. He doesn't know anything, He's a contrarian. Just follow the opposite of what he says and you will make money. He's a hypocrite, a self-conceited confidently wrong shallow person.
I haven't smiled since ages. I haven't been happy since a really long time. And well I am truly alone. How did it come to this? I feel all this is a really bad dream. I shall wake up the next moment safe in my room in Anga, shake my head over the utterly unrealistic dream and go for the Ecosoc meeting. Wish life was that simple. Wish I hadn't screwed up. I wish I wasn't such a simpleton, such a dunderhead.
A drowning man clutches at any straw that he can grasp. I find only twigs, weak feeble ones, which only flatter to deceive. One moment I think I am out of the mire and the next I sink again into the bottomless depth, sputtering to breathe. I really wish I could swim.
The dark age is upon us.
And it is before the dawn of our time
That the doom of my life is upon me
How did it ever come to this?
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Edge
Faltering steps to the top
Past rocks and brambles and prickly vine,
Until at last he stood all alone
Staring into the abyss of death
The very picture of despair and ruin
It had been ages since he had smiled
Mired in his own mediocrity
Robbed of every aspiration, every dream
A fate worse than death he had undergone
Starved of love, care and any affection
Alone and friendless as he stood there
A grave temptation bore upon him
To let go would be child's play
A sudden rush into the dark
A moment cowering in pain
And the weight of every burden ever borne
Would never plague him again
As the images of his life flashed past him
He pondered if anyone would even care
Here and there a few copious tears shed
A soulful elegy or even two
On the blank face of a nameless tomb
Even the rocks beneath seemed more alluring
And then when all hope seemed lost
He shied away from his horrible fate
It was fear that stayed his hand
Or maybe a passing thought
For death is more miserable than the meanest life
Past rocks and brambles and prickly vine,
Until at last he stood all alone
Staring into the abyss of death
The very picture of despair and ruin
It had been ages since he had smiled
Mired in his own mediocrity
Robbed of every aspiration, every dream
A fate worse than death he had undergone
Starved of love, care and any affection
Alone and friendless as he stood there
A grave temptation bore upon him
To let go would be child's play
A sudden rush into the dark
A moment cowering in pain
And the weight of every burden ever borne
Would never plague him again
As the images of his life flashed past him
He pondered if anyone would even care
Here and there a few copious tears shed
A soulful elegy or even two
On the blank face of a nameless tomb
Even the rocks beneath seemed more alluring
And then when all hope seemed lost
He shied away from his horrible fate
It was fear that stayed his hand
Or maybe a passing thought
For death is more miserable than the meanest life
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