The Suffocated Voice
Thus agonized Siddhartha
Serenity of the night has given me a rare insight;
I finally have the heart and time to write;
I haven't been able to scribble my thoughts,
for months now and my mind has been the host,
Where a millions of monsters and ghosts reside,
I feel like a couped up rebellion which has no fight.
Like a hungry tiger with no claws, no hunt no food for thoughts.
Everyday goes by where I'm labouring and catering desires,
Not of my own, and suffering for irresponsibilities of others
And lamenting and crying for thoughts that ought not
Haunt artists and poets for countless days and nights.
I could have found my happiness maybe in this turbulent times
If only I could determine my labour no matter how tedious
It might even had me consumed my soul inch after inch inside.
But I am unfortunate as my labour is undeterminstic and undecided
And every minute decisions change like the turbulent airs and tides.
Uncertainty has took over my precious life.
Monumental tasks would have me captivated,
Irrespective of my love for it, but no my labours menial and unnecessary
In every sense, in every time.
But I must carry on or suffocate inside due to guilt
And I do the labour and it kills me from the pressure and taunts outside.
I want to labour, I really do
I want to move mountains and carve rivers in time
But only through my thoughts, for my weapon is my mind.
They criticize everything I do, and I hate my labour
From the core of my heart and mind.
Oh! How much I miss the smell of parchments and blotting ink drops.
How much I would love to sit and write and write and write.
I have reached a breaking point, my sanity is my last lose left.
I fear nothing now, for all my fears and monsters are dying too.
For i have no time to spare on their thoughts.
I feel hollow, I feel dry. Barren as a dying dessert.
Where an oasis might never spur for another million years in time.
The world might end and the love of million people lost.
And I wouldn't feel anymore in another few days.
As i would be completed dead inside.
I can hear the crickets screeh and the cats fight in the middle of the night.
I can hear the stars shine and the moon saddened and cry.
He has reason to do so, for his story teller has no time to construct,
Stories of elves and dwarfs and monsters....
As they seem to be dying along with the storyteller's voice.
The window looks great in the night.
The only source of light.
And there in the cracks and breaks you can peak and see
Hundreds of books and a thousand empty pages waiting,
Waiting for a man who's too busy to follow his heart and mind.
I want to stroke the backbone of a book and open it's pages.
Read it from the first line and comprehend what sort of mind,
Conjured this magic into words and into sentences,
That I can connect to after millions of people in time.
My ideas and aspirations have started to crumble as
The termites of the obstacles posed by few good humans have
Took hold of the mind which would otherwise protect and nurture them.
Give them shape and give them a structure, give them a quality
Which kept them an everlasting life in the form of symbols and metaphors
Passing through the generations until it succumbed and yielded to another humans effort and metamorphosized.
The return to my solitude might save my sanity and probably fifty years of my life.
And a walk in the eternal forest might help me find a more
Suitable place to hide, guide and breed my thoughts.
Until a day comes when I feel I need more experience,
To continue my pursuit of truth, and answers and
My efforts to make progess so that another individual might,
Come along in another thee hundreds of years and
Admire my work and thus the cycle shall perpetual and eternal
Through the halls and walls of time.
And I desire my current nights be more sleepless,
More details and details i shall find about,
All the questions for which I and thousands before me have desired,
Never to be lost in time once found.
Never to be unseen once the cloak and the helms fall down.
Or i shall die fighting this invisible knight with my mighty pen.
Until then there are no goodbyes, there are no endings.
There's only ideas and there's only Time.
-Siddartha.