The Difficult Life—How Do I Even Make it Through the Day?

Everything’s a strange little thing, out of nothing—but our hearts that care so much, even if it were for misery to look beautiful—attached casually to our emotions. How is it, every single day of this melting life—how do I make it, for the stars won’t even be singing now—I’d be long gone.

My father used to say that nothing was going to be easy, and with him, at the tenderest of our days, in search for a grain to suffice our thirst—there wasn’t any day when I did not ask of him, beauty in this absconding life that never is.

So much has been going on, even the wolves have started fearing you for what you have become—sword that can no longer pierce through your oblique heart. It feels like I’m dead, yet waiting at the train station—only to be carried back to the land which had me ridden with melancholia since the first winter of my happiness.

Singing for the last three hours, but no one ever listens—pity posters left in nakedness, forged out of sincere love making in the attic, those were the days when love flourished. But the logs are dead now, and love is—but a foolish word out of the stained bedsheets.

My days, utters of each night and the compulsion of the skies—they want to have me such early. And what is it that still holds me here, hanging onto the craft that was never meant to be. I know, for my life has never seen misery, but pettiness as I try to breathe, and with it, stones of black charisma floating on top of my chest, every lung that has it.

Not much is left, depressed poets and torn paint—never to be painted or expressed for the last of the uncared leaf. I tried to hold onto me, but no one would care, and I—nothing of me but screams of separation as each fragile sheep walks over me.

Been writing for a while, but what difference does it even make?

And the unemployed knights have no say, in this overly-capitalized world of theirs—singing but no food, or the wine they so delicately spill, unto the floor that is no made of love or hate, but gists of lies—no life ever presents us with.

Each day, it is survival as the beasts only run the comfy carpets—with the tides no longer wailing with us, but against the shores that once cared. I’m not well, but who is—over-exemplified gown and tyrant leaders.

And if I left, all I could wish for—pieces of our hearts, not to be displayed at the museum, but cared for. We are humans too, shades of our own creation. Each night walks by—and here I am, riddled—how is it that I have made it this far?

-Yogesh Chandra