Righteous Anger

Life chooses to screw with me now.. it has decided to blow away my best laid plans.. and has been kind enough to add in some belittlement and demeaning treatment in return for all the months of toil.. It is torturous to be me right now. And there is no way to avoid this anger, when it stems from my blazing sense of righteousness. I can't get over the fact that this is what I am bequeathed with for willingly shouldering every unnecessary burden that came my way.

I want to throw it all away with the flick of a finger.. I want to hurl a mammoth ball of boiling verbal spite at those who choose to undervalue me. And I want to end this period of my life and move on to the next. Loyalty stops me.. ethics stop me.. but not for long.

Uncomfortably Numb?

Fascinating how a writer can put in words what he/she finds impossible to speak/scream out loud. I read somewhere that every experience and emotion from a writer's life is wrought large in his/her literary works, and fittingly so. Most of us have worn the cloak of hypocrisy so long that we would feel naked without it; the only tools powerful enough to unwrap the snug cloaks off our bodies are the words that these fingers type. What is written is written; it is there for the world to see, and in the world of social networking, as a friend of mine once commented on a Facebook post of mine, all our writing has had to be shortened and moved to Facebook and Twitter updates for instant approval/disapproval by our peers.

With attention spans hardly exceeding a few precious seconds at a time, I wonder when again I will sit on a beach and have a never ending conversation, as the hours pass us by. When was the last time I walked under a moonlit sky on a tree-lined avenue with just my thoughts for company? I do not even remember the last time I sat in front of my computer and typed out a ranting mail to a far away friend.

Ah I am too busy.. always: too busy building a career for myself; too busy being the man of my house; too busy doing chores, traveling, attending classes, too busy to stand and stare. But not too busy to spend that extra ten minutes checking the latest happenings in my peer group, from status updates to freshly uploaded pictures, grow virtual farms and cities and ice fake mafia members. Oh, what a hasty existence!

Where is that simple boy to whom an idyllic afternoon was a shady spot in the garden, a book in hand, a couple of biscuits and a glass of the latest fruit crush that he bought at Ambika Appalam Depot/the erstwhile Foodworld? The boy who jumped walls to take long walks with his best pal from school talking about every stupid thing under the sun seems to have disappeared under reels of instant messaging, sms and mms-es. How many people even type proper sentences these days? Yours truly does, much to his own relief..


....to be continued.

An unfinished poem...

Iridescent dreams, technicolor on a blue black stage...

Soaring heights, endless depths and miles of nothingness,

a billion beautiful images, flash past, excite and engage,

Morphined away from what's real, the mess....

Wake up to what you face, a struggle and a bag of lies,

a daily sickening rigmarole, a hypocrite's paradise,

A mind numbing, breath choking closet of ice;

Curse the day fate rolled that decisive dice.

A poem to start things off.....

-----An incoherent whine of an incompetent existence.----

From the angst driven recesses of a much troubled mind,

fire red passions mangled to an ice blue hue,

ill-formed emotions peek out in search of expression,

to escape the bars of a comfortably numb heart.

Solo strings of an unaccompanied violin,

eke out a tune to pierce the eternal silence,

of a love never found, hope never lost,

orchestrating its symphonic fantasies.

A stab straight to the center of the heart,

the gushing blood, the blinding pain,

evidence at last that life still lingers,

a chance to scream out a billion unsaid emotions.

---- Shreedhar Iyengar----