Spoilt Virgins--What Has Defined a Life Today?

Closed shutters, exasperating breath and teenage attire. These are the symbols of longing, inside the vase which is overly irrational—peaks of our little lost lives. What does it feel like to want and not be felt with and to feel and not be wanted, in agony and leaking tears—for nobody ever stopped crying or smiling over a spilt tear.

It is a special time, to fly yet remain intact to the stars of daylight—purest of empathy beside the last of the untouched. And 16 strikes like the dead seas, dwelling rocks become your only friend and the nights become filled with wet desires. It is time to get undressed, and to lie on top of the naked sheets only to realize that the rumors were never true.

Alcohol overflows and the mind starts dancing for the first time. You have never felt this before, or what is the color of your imagination now that the heart no longer beats and the waves no longer reach the surface. Silk starts dancing, and to walk is an alien concept—things which would not make sense at this hour or the next.

Sophisticated scent tries to enter, and no one is there to look after you. Physique is such a mess, and nobody ever recited verses of this kind to us. So walk, and run towards the center of it all. I have been trying to understand, the compulsion to make love, or consume alcohol for the first time—knowing that days are never meant to be.

On your left, you see a beautiful flower and you start falling in love with her. An inexplicable feeling it is—dancing on the moon and raining of perfume from Jupiter. Nobody stopped singing, the rings that are so dear—evenings held into purgatory, nobody to hold or what is a human supposed to do.

Unreal triumphs, contemplation of love and sex—semantics that so mercilessly define the kind. To walk unto the desert, it will get tougher at each climaxing second. Overwhelming urges but the society keeps it a secret, stains of satisfaction behind barricaded doors—and to talk of it is such a miserable thing—says the society.

And soon the mind starts getting undressed, impolite gesture inside the only jar left for us. Did it ever occur to you that we would not make it?

Dawn kicks in, nobody is there to wake you up but a piece of poetry. Last of the lines reading itself in misery thrice each night—and you kept on ignoring that. Today it will look at you, but it won’t—antidepressants will run from you but it will never.

It was such a good life, but then the virgins had to grow up. There is nobody to protect you, or if life is a thing—nobody to explore it with.

-Yogesh Chandra