To let the bugs know my island slow roasted now lives in smoke….
Bugs to you–
I don’t want to know how a day passed busy How the traffic snarled Trench coats soaked in muddy rain A rose crying baldHow a friend forgot a promise Kids missing school How the fish searched for spices The chimney never fumed….
I want to see the sky changing colour The sun leaving the stage How the stars are busy in the green room The moon setting a vast night ablaze
My island slow roasted, lives in smoke….
The sun was gone. The point of time the sky is de-robed, anaemic, as if you can vision the firmamental skeleton. A forked transition from light to dark, vibrant to dull. The time when the breeze refuses to blow, foliages stand still. Only the sky moves creating abstracts through the leaves.
Occasional chirping and flapping cut across your cerebral waves, making you wonder if those avians are rushing to catch the last train. You sense anxiety in the blue.
The whole morning was spent with bugs. They don’t leave you, sticking to your skin, hair, lungs, liver, pancreas, eating from their cell-ar. The body fluid never felt so sick.
You want to gouge out each and every one of those bugs, feasting into your immunity, picnic-ing on your sanity, take them between your stiff fingers and smash them to death, to throw them away to oblivion…But No. That’s not happening.
They are blocking my airway, choking my vision, blinding my audition, sending my little pack of energy to a far away boarding school. The mental haze refusing to leave.
The oddity of feeling distant, even from myself. Everything shrouded in a thick layer of fog — my thoughts, imageries and imaginations seem to be running on a parallel track, moving away from my grip every time I try to own them. My mind running a road to eternity dissolving slowly into the abyss of nothingness.
It is nothing new, yet every time it presents itself in a new attire, changing its mask, only the sound of it so similar.
She plucked stars from her tangled hair Threw it back to the sky Porous sands on her mind’s shore impatient Tossing ’n turning to grab the light from the mouth of the dark Night a gathering of starlight, shimmering on the waves — How they flow towards her, washing her feet Her feet crushing sand-castles, water carrying back their homes
We all need a home, our minds too….
The bugs, as you know, are powerful. But they make the mistake of assuming that a person of peace is unskilled at war. It is a story of survival but also creating an environment that bring out your innate softness. Your pain, your damage, your letting-go make you feel strong, teach you to make hell feel like home, your mind calls desire to convert that home into a pool of creative juices you drink from.
Less be told, being creative is groping in the dark.
A frightening feeling of birthing something new, the audacity to put it out into this world, not knowing how mal-adjusted they can be in the linearity of real existence.
You tred along a circle, every time reaching a place where it all begun. Where the mind rides the adventure pony, where torching the unknown over-shadows anxiety.
Why do I have to write — is it because there are so many before me who travelled the path and led a life of inspiration or is it because I have to lay my stones and pebbles by the roadside to be picked up by some kindred soul who refused to die
Why am I feeling restless as my ink is looking for words to fly….
My little universe is an island, fishing for peace, looking for sleep, wanting to float in loch-o-calm, unperturbed. There is no search for exuberant hues, but mindful walking on the green fields unkempt, unbothered, unhesitant….
You are ready to throw them all out. Pushed out of their rented tent the bugs form a stream, gushing out of my ears, nose, lips, eyes, oozing through my skin pores, painfully real yet creating a sense of relief, releasing a taught system from discomfort.
As they eject into the air, jetting black bugs gyrate, slowly form a queue, leave queue, join back, take shapes, form words, create expressions merging with the sky’s mood.
You know you have a friend in blue. Shades ignored.
I don’t know why you write, but I write for therapy, to heal, to touch that island of peace within my inside universe. Everytime.
Bugs. Be damned.
It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels — Virginia Wolf
Comments
Nefelibata
24-Apr-2025 10:04Nefelibata
25-Mar-2025 11:03