Confused*

I'm so confused. You must believe me friend, believe that i am not lying in your face, when i say "I do not know", "I do not understand", and "I do not know what to do".

You tell me all the bad things you see about me in my face, in your honesty you blurt them out, and i answer you with a nervous laugh, because i am taken by surprise, i do not want you to see how hurt i feel, so i compose myself, I force upon myself to remain calm, and i concur with everything you say, because i have not the strength to contradict you, i know deep down that you are right, and that i am not. How can i defend myself against your onslaught of honesty? My body cannot endure, and it starts changing color, and i feel things in my stomach, and things in my muscles.

You tell me that you love me, that it is out of love that you do this, that you do not wish to see me remain in my current state, you wish to see me changed, you wish to see me changed and like you. And i hate you for it! I hate you for it! Forgive me for my hatred, and anger. How can i stand before your love? I shed tears inside me when you said those words. I am unworthy of this. Go away and leave me! And you went, and i said "thank you" but under my breath i cursed the day i met you!

How can i love you when you display with passion and reprimand to me and to others the parts of my soul that i wish to keep hidden, the things i run from, the things i am afraid of, and the things i have not yet learned how to deal with? How can i accept that you hurt me for my own good? I can't. I do not want this, I can tell you that, I want to be pampered like a child is by his mother, I do not want to change, I am comfortable here in this ditch i have made for myself. And you come and shatter everything, all the things i thought were good about me fall to the ground, all the gradual build up, all the things i was learning...

Forgive me for being this cruel, for not appreciating your love, and for not reciprocating it. For not desiring for myself the good things you desire for me. Forgive me that i write an apology, an elegy of feelings and thoughts, but i do not diligently pursue change. Forgive that i can only grasp the bad things, the things which make me out to be your victim.

*To G for our conversation on the 17th of August 2009 in the kitchen, i took the "wide gate", and the "broad way".

Goodbye

I said goodbye to a friend yesterday, and to another the day before.

For someone like me, saying goodbye is a thing of great weight. Even though while i am saying goodbye, i cannot feel this weight, but feel it later on, when i go to sleep, and when i wake up the next day, and the next.

And for someone like me, to whom saying goodbye has become a normal cyclical part of my life, you'd think i got used to it. But i find that i really haven't.

It hurts.

cat

i once had a cat.
fuzzy, cuddly and fat.

i loved my cat.
in my lap she sat.

she left, my cat.
i miss her, drat!

i want another cat,
but mom won't have that!

No Worries

I woke up this morning. So did you, and so did some other person somewhere, and another sometime other.
I worried about today, what i was going to do. I'm on holiday and there's so much free time, that you can actually worry about it. I thought about the next computer game i want to try, the mural i want to paint, the music i want to play, the books i want to read, and a few other things i am too ashamed to say.

But somewhere, some other person, maybe a small child in some poor country woke up this morning and thought to himself "i think i want to eat today", and another said "i wonder if i can find a place to sleep tonight". They worried about finding an earthen bed, and some bread crumbs.

Somewhere else, someone other woke up and said "i hope i don't get killed today, nor my kids", and another said "i hope nothing bad happens on the way back from work". They worried about staying alive long enough to go back home and back to sleep, only to wake up again.

Sometime else, someone else thought "i wonder how many people i've killed yesterday, and how many i'll have to kill today", and another said "i miss him, and her, and them". They worried about death, pain and suffering immeasurable.

These, and others, in my eyes, either become so indifferent, because they see that their lives matter not to others, so why should it matter to them? Or they hold on so tightly to their lives because their lives are all they have.

I think i'm safe, i think i have food to eat, and a bed to sleep on. And thus i think not of such matters of life and death. I only think of how to indulge myself. And i become indifferent.

21 years have gone too soon
21 years inside this gloom

and i'm still wondering
and i'm still waiting
to bloom

21 summers i fly high
21 winters my mouth runs dry

and i'm still wondering
and i'm still waiting
to bloom

The Elite

It was a long bus ride.
He sat, looking out the window. His eyes suddenly widened, but only a little. They had passed into a tunnel, and come out the other side. The other side was different. He knew it because his eyes had widened. It got his attention. The things on his side did not. He was so used to them.
The houses were clustered on top of each other, and stuck to each other. They looked beautiful, at least to his eyes. Their gray tones blended richly in the sun light. He was pleased.
He remembered, he had been here before, quite a long while ago. Actually, he used to live here, not exactly here, but more or less on this side.
But he does not now.
As the bus moved along, he started seeing things and places he had seen before, and a few memories came back. "I haven't been here in a long time" he said to himself. He was right.
I haven't been there in a long time either.
He and I both know why. We both know why we do not see those houses anymore, or walk those dirty smelly streets between them. We both know why we no longer see or speak to the inhabitants of those houses. But we do not really think about it, for what does it matter? And we no longer live there!
You see, we are a part of something else, that 'they' are not a part of. We have come a long way, they have not. We know more, we make more, we create more. Hell, we even love more. They do not. We are better. Much better. We know what life is about. We read more. We speak more. We do more. We know how to have a good time. We know how to use our money, because we know how to make it. While sadly, they do not. See...We are better. Have I not said it?
They lack so much. Living in all their filth. All their hatred, suppressed anger, and lack of intelligence. Retards. We have outrun them. By far. Pathetic, miserable, life wasters. That is what I call them.
We, on the other hand, are happy, content, and wise. We know where we are headed, we know what we want. They do not. They are like prisoners chained to a bus without a driver, a plane without a pilot.

He looked out again, trying to come back to the present moment. Sighed, a sigh of relief, and perhaps, just maybe, of nostalgia. But I doubt it, I know him too well. He wondered how much longer this bus ride was going to take.

They, they, they. They are not.
We, are The Elite.
They, are not.
We are.
They, are not.

My dear self : Letter I

My dear self,
I have not seen you for quite a long while now. I wanted to apologize. I was quite busy, and quite more busy anticipating being busy. I am sorry, for in the middle of all of this business, I left you out. I put you in the very back of my head, where i can only see a glimpse of parts of you. Or worse yet, i put you on a shelf, with things piled on top of you, to make sure you get dusty.

Do you miss me?
I miss you.

To be quite honest, i find it very difficult for us to meet, and every time i think of you, i shrink before the thought of this meeting. There is a lot that i do not want to tell you, and so much more that i do not want to hear from your mouth. It seems that i am very bad at keeping relationships alive.

I got so used to being away from you, that it is so difficult for me to come back. It is so difficult for me to understand you, or understand anything new about you.

Will you forgive me? I have done you wrong.

Yours,

raja

the girl on a bridge

Under the rain, over the bridge.
In the blowing wind, there she stood.
A girl on a bridge.
Holding things in her hands that people do not buy.
Lifting her arms to those passers-by.

Who is going to take care of you?
I am just passing through.

now what?

He has a lot of work. Too much, actually.
And a deadline. Which he tries not to think about.
There is still time.
He spends the day in front of his computer, which makes his back hate him, and his left shoulder despise him.
He does not really pay attention, when the sun goes down, even though the window is right in front of him. He does not like that. He hates it, actually.
He goes for a walk at the end of the day, trying to evaluate how much work he has gotten done,
and planning the remaining days, and trying to take a break.
He does not pay attention to how quiet the city is today, or how beautiful the clouds are above him, whose gray tones are bright even though it is dark.
He goes to bed as soon as he cannot take it anymore, and he tries to wake up as early as he can, only to sit in front of his unmoving companion, the computer. The day passes, quite quickly, and his production rate is not as fast as the passing seconds. And soon, it's dark again. He takes his usual walk. Again.
On the day before the deadline, his body is very weary. His eyes are bloodshot. His back and left shoulder prevent him from making any sudden movement. He is nervous. Very nervous. He stays up all night, trying to finish his work. But eventually gives in to two hours of sleep, which he can't really notice.
On that final day, when he hands in his work, which he is not really satisfied with, he can't really notice anything that is going on around him. Things go quite well, much better than he thought. Even though he is struggling to stay awake, which he also soon stops noticing.
Near the end, when everyone goes home, and everything is done, and he is finally free, to enjoy a well earned time of rest, he stops short.
He notices something, it gets his attention. He sees himself going home, but he can't help the sickness in his stomach. He notices that he has no more work. He can do whatever he likes with his time, at least for a good long while. This thought increases the stomach sickness. He starts paying attention to that feeling below his abdomen. Only one phrase passes through his head "Now what?"