Resistance and anger

Look me in the eye and see who I really am

Not just this thin veneer of soft-spoken civility

but also the raging storms of apathy and regret.

See in me the scars of the whips of time.

I carry the burden of my ill-fated choices,

blotches of levity in this acrid fog of war.

I do not conform to your wisdom, nor your experience.

Striding my own path, clawing at gravel to make footholds.

You cannot walk my path. Nor can you help me.

Tiresome and weary. I march on distilled spite.

To rip and shred and break and curse yet never yield.

Witness the birth of a monster carving destiny.

I rage. I fester. I smile at the world outside.

There is a demon in the shape of a man.

There is a child in the shape of a demon.

Look me in the eye, scab! And tell me what you see.

A happy man? A cursed soul? A threat? Or maybe a victim?

If you had been more compassionate, you'd see the child.

There's a question I want to be asked

There is a question that I would like to be asked. It's probably not a unique question. Some people may believe it to be inappropriate or insensitive or somehow oppressive. To those people I saw, this is my existence; you are not invited into it so feel free to take your thoughts and voices away. To those who care to listen, here it is:

"What is it like being me?"

Tonight, I think about this. What is it like being a man? Specifically, what is it like being a nearly 31-year-old man, from India, struggling to get a career, living at home, and hiding some non-traditional personality traits from family? What is it like living /dealing with mental illness? What is it like being praised as a genius but feeling like a failure? What is it like being unable to cry? What is it like being unable to really rely on friends and family? To that extent, what is it like feeling alien to both halves of one's family?

All I can say is that it feels tremendously isolating. I want to kick and scream and yell. I want to be engaged with. I want to be treated with sympathy. I want someone to consciously make time in their day for me. I want to feel like a priority. I want to feel like I make a positive difference in their life. I want to be flirted with and romanced and loved. I want to be cherished. 

I'm also unbelievably exhausted. Tired of taking on everyone's issues. Tired of being everyone's shoulder to rely on for emotional well-being. Tired of being taken for granted.

In a more general sense, I don't enjoy being so cynical about people or the world. I want to find my place, even if it's just within 4 walls and a handful of spaces. Of late, I've felt that things have taken a bit of a sour turn in my relationships, within me. I find that I just want to spend more and more time alone instead of trying to engage with the people that I claim that I like. That isn't to say that I don't like them or even love them, but just that I want to just be by myself yet be important, and contradictingly, ethereal in their lives.

What I fear today is that I might be losing my humanity, my kindness. Since I no longer claim the title of "smartest in the room", I had tried to be the kindest...but it appears that I might lost that. A strange sense of apathy seems to blanket my current existence. I want to believe that isn't the case. I worry that it might be.

Am I consigned to an existence on singledom, or perhaps pseudo-singledom? My dreams of a legacy and heirs seem to have dried up. I have mourned them multiple times, and probably will in the future too. I cannot decide if it's a wise decision. To choose to be a parent...seems like I have probably missed my mark (yet another probably senseless thing said by someone in their early 30s).

I feel the weight of unfulfilled expectations: I should have had a job by now; I should have been married by now; I should have had a kid by now; I should have a home by now. I want to believe that at the core of it all, I am still a scared child who is struggling, but if I may be honest with myself, I am not scared, I am overwhelmed. I fear failure. I fear making mistakes. I fear not being "good enough" to face all that life is throwing at me. It never occurs to me naturally that I should ask for help.

I cannot trust freely. I cannot believe that I can rely on someone in troubled times. I have been abandoned at times when I thought that it would be obvious not to. Even then, I've had to step up and support those around me. 

I've had immense trouble setting boundaries, advocating for my needs, and just generally being honest with others and myself. Anger seems to be my default, and I've had a terrible role model in handling that. It has chased away people. The problem has seemed to get worse in the last year. Is it because I'm trying to be more conscious of it? Am I just mentally tired all the time? I don't want to be consumed by it. 

Different kind of love

I probably don't love like you do
The shores of patience never held firm for me
I'd rather dive into the unfathomed depths
To be too safe is a sin of love

I probably don't love like you do
I am no longer of just my own soul
No longer am I of just my own self
To love and not change is arrogance

I probably don't love like you do
Let me touch, caress, feel, hold, rub, stroke
Bodies deserve love too
To ignore the corporeal is reprehensible

I know I don't love like you do
Because I love you, and you,
and you, and you, and you, and you
To love in limits is no love at all

My half-empty pepper-shaker

I was never one for too much spice

A little salt or sugar or perhaps some butter

Occasionally some bitters in my drink

But rarely even a grain of pepper.

My palette is yet to be marred

by the heat of a ripe chili. I've nursed

my buds to welcome the naked

wonders of all cuisines, without facade.

The world called me bland, but

all the spice I needed was you.

You were the cayenne and the paprika.

I filled a pepper shaker for you.

We lived together and grew.

Had children and snored.

But slowly we drifted until we couldn't

remember what we were fighting for.

It's now silent at the dinner table.

The children have lives. They grew up kind.

I'm still not a fan of spices.

My pepper shaker is still half-full.

Growing Up

That guy i was friends with

I yearn to distance myself from him

That loud girl from class

I actually miss her smile

That quiet guy from across the hall

He doesn't shut up about his cute kids

By best friend from back in the day

Makes me feel unsafe today

I was called gifted and multi talented

But now I'm half orphaned and broken

Nobody could have seen

today, 15 years ago

A pandemic, some wars

Few heartbreaks, and a lost cause.

New hopes, new dreams

Growing up is weird no....

Love me from afar

Love me from afar,

like the moon and the stars;

seemingly always bound together

yet separated by vast aether.

Love me from afar.

This soul has been marred

by the rot of civil society

eroding, with its propriety

Love me from afar.

Touch not these scars

for I have sadly lived long

and failed to remain strong.

Love me from afar.

Compassion feels bizarre.

Kindness feels fleeting

but guilt remains unyielding.

Love me from afar.

Warm memories are left to char

and stain my life with meaning

when you leave me keening.

Somewhere for ye

I'm told that libraries don't expect

anything but existence. Just calm

entrenchment within the written world.

Coffee shops are for the occasional date

or for those running late. Or maybe you're

an artist who's found their perfect brew.

For the more active among you, there are gyms,

filled with the like-minded, with a certain

masochism and considerable machismo.

When the sun dops, some venture out

seeking thumping beats and exotic drink.

You'll find haven in the Nightclub's folds.

There are parks for the nature lovers and

serial walkers, bird watchers and influencers,

and the occasional unseen young couple.

The open roads call those with a leather

fetish and a need for speed. The choking

city sounds and lights in their rear mirror.

Fair few find their space in the house of God.

They meet their brethren there while silent

or deep in meditation. Desserts before leaving.

To the bakers and makers and the recipe fakers,

your church is the kitchen. Sating the soul

as much as a rumbly-grumbly tummy.

Look around you! No matter your bend,

you'll find spaces of all kinds and trends.

Places with history. Spaces of mystery.

Spaces with style. Places to stay a while.

Yet people exist before such locations.

Tell me, do you fit any of the above vocations?

The solemn few nod in silent understanding.

"There is no zone for my specific branding."

Your value isn't contingent upon your art

just as mine isn't based on if you read this draft.

Maybe you are one who prefers to dream

or probably just watch the people teem.

Silence is your criterion. The void is your bliss.

Who is the world to deny you this?

May peace be your calling, its creation, divine.

I will meet you upon that quiet hill, with a bottle of wine.