It rained today. Delhi is cold again. Only less cold than me. there's a reason for Delhi being cold unlike me. I guess I am just desperately searching for poetry in these words to compensate my inability to feel. Sad isn't it? does it even count as a feeling. In comparison to literary stalwarts who wrote about wars, droughts and poverty. Fighting the system, waging a war against norms and traditions. Driven by the need to change the system.
Me?
I am just infested with the Germanic instinct to kill everybody.
So here's what I wrote last night in another failed attempt to scavenge poetry out of the frickle bourgeois life and times of mine
The sound of the sky
echoes the sound of my head
A thunderstruck moment of
purposefulness.
impaled by the need to break
the norms of well being
As i stand at the bend of the road
I'm daunted by the miles-
that lie ahead of me
To reach a place
where I don't wish to leave
To gather a momentum
that doesnt turn into inertia
because like a fallen raindrop
I lie homeless, in the handcuffs
of sanity.
