"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

take this from me,
my shoulders are too thin to bear it
the lump on my back has grown too big
for me to carry

this baby is yours to grow
the toenails you will clip
the hair you will trim
the body you will dress

it would not have been me in the first place
we both knew this when you hand over the bundle
with pink pacifiers and blue diapers

I have done my best
you can see the mouth fills itself
with wailings of a deprived

you are here now,
take this away from me.

could it be?

could it be that we're together again
that you're in my arms
after all this waiting
the sweet smell wafting around me
emanate, flows from your wheaten hair
silk touching, enveloping me is your skin
faint heartbeat I hear
come from the chambers of your heart?

Then take me,
hold me even closer
clip my wings,
I've been stooping too low

I'm yours now,
As you've been mine
always.

I worry. I tended to ignore so much that it comes to a point where there's nothing more to be contemplated afresh.

I can't read anymore. My eyes pore over the words, my brain registered nothing. It is as if the connection is cut somewhere in between before reaching the intended destination.

I'm beyond forcing myself. Ugly and destructive as it may be, taking hold of my head and making myself look at the stark, barenaked fact is the only route left to me.

Fuck, I can't even write! I cannot transcribe the thoughts flinging themselves merrily in my mind. They froze when I stare across a blank screen, then resume their frenzied motion the moment I call for a respite.

No, no more of this. I can't do this. I won't. I'll just sit still, the world can continue on moving around me, I wouldn't give a shit anymore.

Revolve on your axis,
forget the sun that rose every morning
forget the moon with craters marring it
forget the tides, forget the stars
the prairie and hills, green grass and autumn leaves

I call on you, come back, come back

Look upon my desperate cry,
hear the numbness on my face
do I mean nothing to you now?

I am getting tired of this self-imposed restraint. Self-censorship if you may. It's carving a big hole out of me now. A massive abyss, all in black. I couldn't even write poetry anymore! Where is the conviction so strong, forged by sheer will? What happened to it? I seek inside me explanations, try hard to rationalise. But it seems that the farthest I could reach is half-way before floundering, like a flower in early spring, green shoots young reach for light cast by the sun but defeated before fully straightening its back, it's root is too weak to sustain it's strenuous effort. I am simultaneously an old woman and an infant, senile and blank.Things I have known I have forgotten, things I haven't seems to move merrily out of my reach, mocking and enticing at the same time. It's a peculiar mixture of burning curiosity for knowledge and cold disdain for not finding out about it earlier. I have been punishing myself for crimes, atrocities that are purely self-imaginary in nature, with petty feelings as evidence at that! Which results in unbearable contempt for myself manifesting itself in the form of vicious, merciless and relentless waves of attack. I am not able to patch my disordered, disjointed, bleak thoughts together to form coherent, explainable sentences. Eloquence eludes me, I chase it doggedly, to no avail, elegance is both aloof and superior.


I am now devoid of desire.There, it is out there in the open. The vibrancy that before was prevalent is made enfeebled. By what? Rather, it is a question of by which? I don't think I could answer truthfully and still remain whole. In pieces already, to force it would spell annihilation, self-preservation is still my primary instinct being human that I am, damn that.

Neither life, nor death interest me. Nothing does.

i have promised to write so here i am.

could it be that i am residing in a system that offers only deja vu and cycles? that no matter where i go or how i turn, i will always be back at the point where i started out out from, defeated, winded, puzzled?

this is how the universe works after all, an illustrative example being cosmic explosions as both a consummate end and birthing point of life.

is there to be no escape but only in feigned ignorance, protracted obliviousness?

how are we to breathe free then?

tell me, are we born in chains?

do we drag our bound limbs over the course of existence?


locks keep me here and tied me there, my lungs struggle only to draw stagnant air.

progress is a promise made in paradise forged with the hottest fires of hell.


i see only my feet, the bones tough, tendons lax and still, the distance they cover turns out to be meaningless they will repeat, repeat the rhythm.

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

what makes a writer different form all the other human beings?

the fact that they put down to words what most others choose to ignore, be oblivious to, and musicians sings some of them away?

what kind of egotism that could possibly emboldened them to believe what they have created has any worth at all?

how did it get it to their heads that they're any kind of special?

as Norah Jones "the stories has all been told, i guess i'll just follow along", the similar themes, merely differing renditions.

please do not take this as some sort of attack on the artistic in general or writers, this is an incoherent rant that centres on my trying to reason out my insecurities.

but of course, this is a doomed mission before it even starts.

logic cannot counter, let alone refute feelings, further explanation of said feelings will merely muddle it even more and logic requires clarity no?

i feel although i'm being audacious, daring with very little justifications in my doing so.

who am I to brave it out, lay it neatly and perfected when i'm anything but?

i sought to became an enchantress, dressed in threadbare rags, horse voice and stooped back, about to perform to a jaded audience, with little preparations, only for sheer bravado or foolishness, turning into a statue staring at the rising curtains, stark terror coursing the my veins, all the lyrics forgotten.

Incompatible appearance, background, i feel as though the odds are stacked against me before i could even begin.

i must write. no matter what. however much cynicism and scepticism stalling me, i must. because i cannot do anything else.

and that my dearies, is the truth. the cause and effect of everything.

alphabets dance before my eyes
why oh why is it so hard to make them stop
impertinent things they are
what would you do now?

i warn you, shouting and hollering will not do
softly crooning and ballads won't either
what 'bout a stern stare, that usually works, you ask
oh no, it doesn't, tried it myself couple hours ago
well, why don't you just throw up your hands in the air
and lets grab some vodka martinis instead
leave those troublesome Bs and Ks to their salsa and waltz
we'll have good, roaring times, we will
but, but, I'm a poet!
ah, then we're in for a bit of trouble.

leaving out the ignorance
and taking in knowingness

shutting up the credence of noise

silencing what's worth saying
by beginning to speak gibberish

loving your your tongue
encased it with poison

love, love
don't you know already
we are past that line

new territories loom large
take in, take in all you can
before your eyes rebel

skins that's garrotted in terracotta
will save us, will liberate us
prepare now.

raw, red flesh twist and twist
wring and wring itself to large spots of
purple bruises, blue veins stood gasping
and gasping, fighting for its right
it's supreme right to carry air, yellow walls
retch and retch grey, lending pink
temporary dominance.