Life-Nothing More But a Beautiful Tragedy
The complexities of tomorrow, ridiculed today, as it were yesterday- and if there is anything left of today, elegant storms that continue to overwhelm us. As the new child is born, out of unstained bed-sheets and unfaithful love making last evening, what is this creation such flawed, as if life is meant to suffer right from day one. I wouldn’t know much of this life, for all that I know, the on-goer snatches it away from me leaving me without any clothes.
My undressed body, and silk has always been affectionate on everyone but me. It feels like, for the greater part of reality, and what is reality if I’m not even real anymore. Childhood scent, a time of joy and suffocation, it was beautifully miserable. Seeing papa leave me at such tender, and the grains of thin lavender walking away from me, there was nothing much that I could do but to long for things which will never come.
Such a slow death, and teenage skin did not love me at all. For art inside the mind started moving ahead of me. In three seconds, I was filled with such sophisticated desires, ones which would stay with me till I lose my breath. And in loss and leisure, each wave that summits consecutively, who will even care. The mind starts descending, into a state beyond reasonable narration. O beautiful grief, such expressive rays of melancholia, I want to kill myself such impulsively.
It was always about the compulsion, for me to fly on top of empty skies and feel nothing. And there wasn’t a soul, a companion on earth left for this deteriorating life. But creativity and expression my love, it is inside the same mind that wants me gone. How could I even explain, for the art of such expressions are beyond narration. Yet you continue to ask, “Why do you want to kill yourself?”
I do not know, perhaps never will, and as my fingers get sedated at this hour, such a seductive feeling it is, to be living inside an aliens mind. Everything gets relatively silent, and for me to think that it was me, words are never meant to be and everything around me is nothing but an imaginative lie. The little adult who walks on top of the unpaved footpath, spilled with terrible and graceful glasses. There isn’t hope or what is affection under the unrestricted roof, those that never loved a chair or a human.
I fail to understand, for the art of suffering is beyond reasonable description and as each day gets closer to dismay, the virgin wives and the careless clouds harass. And of this desire, to touch a girl like each star is a blessing when every blessing takes away a life, O there isn’t any irony here my love—but life.
Rise and fall, shame and defeat, of all that life has to offer. As I sit here, waiting impatiently for my death, O precious scent of fade and luminous fragrance of the last frangipani- for life is a lie, and each beautiful day is but a mis-guide. The hungry get hungrier, the rich get richer and the depressed become suicidal, and all that it amounts to, such creative lies that we have for humanity as each day is nothing but a regret.
So let me write a little, and of my burning desires and the unwavering skin, O take me with you, and there is nothing but freedom in the end. For defeat and merry go together, like the ends of a stick, still holding onto each other- no matter the great division. And for Mary, she always leaves with another guy, leaving me breathless, damaged and such broken, for the sounds of music have become unreasonably depressing now. And still, I sit here and I wonder-what is this life such an unforgiving craft, pleasant and fictitious, such real sufferings plastered to the skin each beautiful second.
-Yogesh Chandra