Brooding Over Coffee

Here I am at the coffee shop again, sipping my cappuccino, smoking a pack, sitting quietly, writing on tissue papers, observing the huge mound of flesh and mind that surrounds me.

I sit quietly here, listening to the stories of these people. They talk about a thousand generic, boring things, wrapped in glossy words, and I don’t think they realize that. In their attempts to impress each other, they fail to see that their hearts are empty and there is no real weight to what they’re saying; they’re just words. It is like that dancing couple in the small, spherical glass, looking at each other eternally, seemingly in love, but in its truest essence, only glassy, only brittle. And it hurts to see all these beautiful women with their big brown heads feeling content in their talks of gyms and pubs and the patterned urban lifestyle that has slaved them. Slaved them enough to be thinking about it and talking about it always, and the confidence they draw from such things; but isn’t that what we’re fundamentally made of? We’re made of piss and shit and our aim is seeking what saves us. We want to be saved. Saved from what we have done to ourselves and what we are doing to ourselves, and in this quest, we choose to take the path that is the most beaten.

We walk on what has already been walked on. Newer paths scare us. We are afraid of not ending up anywhere. So we go where our neighbor goes, and in union, mock the one who refuses to join the bandwagon, and when I look at the bloody hundreds of them, colliding me as they walk in this madness towards zeroness, I just feel the lack of a companion, and brood and weep, and then walk on.

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Morphed

There is anguish in my heart, and agony too

As I sit here and brood

and see cigarettes after cigarettes after cigarettes burn

In the quest of something crude.

There is agony of what I am doing to myself ;

Blinded by smoke, crying,

and there is agony also of what I seek.

For I put up a facade, a farce

To show them who I am not

To show what I am not.

It hurts me and breaks me for what looks like living is

in its truest essence, nothing but misery – a shallow attempt to feed the sheep what isn’t hay.

To make them believe that there is something better than them that exists,

when reality is sheep and sheep only – their myriad heads flocked and huddled around some men and some women;

and more sheep who are wolves within, who wear the man’s skin – like I do and try to feast on the beliefs of their comrades and die in such beliefs with bald heads and Buddhist shirts and the sheep sing hymns when they die and that is what their life is – endless agony, endless anguish, endless misery – just the kind I bear in my heart.

For I am a wolf, just not the real one.

I am morphed – bits of this and bits of that but whole of none and it hurts me to see what I have collected in these 24 years – twigs and crowns of dried leaves and sad, fallen glory.

But I cannot stop. For like a woman said, it is like a disease. It will take me in its quest, and in which has also risen mine.

And so, even as my hand trembles and my throat hurts, the cigarettes burn.