Thoughtful Brain, Troubled Mind

{ when music fails to invigorate, let language heal the soul }

Mayday

This emotion, will be unintelligibly, improperly and unjustifiably transcribed. Oh why do I even try! I can no longer figure my way through words; I am undeniably handicapped. These are growing dissatisfactions of which there are no ailments, no solutions! It is a biological disorder; a tumour growing and hurting the insides of my gut, my lungs, my valves, my skull and possibly culminating in the glorious penetration out of my skin—screaming in absolute liberty! Oh why do the bones want more? Is skin not enough?  

Vagaries!

My brain is now of twisted nerves; I can’t concentrate on the fleeting nor the whims, nor the insufferable smells of cigarettes burning up, they will combust! I feel I am two: splitting into forms of which I know not, my desires are undergoing mutation, my fears are undergoing changes like the unpropitious morning weather—rain or shine! what brine!

I want to breathe life into the undying constants and the great contentment that most possess. But this is a desire, a duty perhaps, which is socially obnoxious. A different happiness does not mean a lesser one. I must remember! Perhaps I need to apply this theory to myself, to just lie back, to relax and breathe in regulated fours. I am a brick about to shatter into rubble; I am a lark—indecisive and sickening and brazen! You told me umpteenth times and I am learning not to be. There are times when I value that passionate pursuit yet times when I seek other more joyous activities. The indulgence of which obliterates my propensity to write and to mark my growth, my dying youth, my moulting self.

I am going mad! My words are disjunct!

Brevity, of it all

for the nights that I close
Dickens or Woolf,
sacrifice knowledge
for supposed fatigue,
I think, for an hour or so,
about the disagreed

for the mornings that I watch
the birth of the Sun,
forgo affections,
for supposed functionality
I think, for the rest of the day,
about that ability

All the light we cannot see

I think, for one day, I want to discover what it is like to be mad, or be with the mad. I would like to taste the great dysfunctionalities of my incapable being, yet still possess the living faculties of being able to transcribe my stifled proclivity towards that illness. What is it that we are conferred because confiscation was done?

I think, for a brief moment, that aberrant behaviour can be rationalised. After knowing what pain is, what numbness is, what laughter is, we turn to different spaces to discover realer things about fatalism, about simulations, about why moral obligations exist if there is theological determinism. Contentment with normalcy provides no such cogitation! nor individuality! 

I think, for an inexplicable reason, that if being mad were a choice, and should that selfish choice be approved, I should see the world as prodigious. I became clear at a time too late, at a time when the leaves have yellowed, at a time after heyday.

The first of May

A Cheshire cat’s smile follows me tonight. I think of incandescent purposes and of what poetry means. I don’t think I can write poetry like before.

I am reading Plath again, after almost 5 months of a complete abstinence from her gravely melancholic confessions. May has come and spring should denote the freshening of oneself—a moulting, of sorts. I have been reading so much and so deeply into academic writings and Literature that sometimes I am drugged by their elusive and seemingly bizzare ideas. I find myself sick upon dealing with thematic concerns about death, about how “[you] only begin to live when [you] conceive life as tragedy”, about why people who know too much must die, about exhaustive explanations of technicalities of poetry (especially by the oh-so revered Aristotle). I am sick of all that is convoluted, heavy, of principles that command what should be and otherwise. Literature is not about writing about how the sun teases with the clouds, not about what the waters choose to reflect of the sky. I am sick, but am afraid simultaneously. Simply because of the gravity of the bond after graduation—of the lives I’m supporting or possibly destabilising. Yet am honoured, uncontestably. 

I can’t be sick about literary theories and the daunting future of being an academic. I must discover what I want to research and go further: make what is dead appealing and make what is sickening, lively. I need a break from all that is literary, for a moment only short. I am saturated, utterly so.

Alive, alive!

I am losing the flavours I breathe and the sights I taste. I don’t feel tethered by any human connection, by any conscience, by any emotion I want to dispose of so willingly, but, with a metastasising futility. This liberty brings me breeze.

I am reading, reading and reading! ticking texts off literary canons and ingesting delectable syntaxes, intellectual debates about structuralism and humanists’ views! nursery rhymes are made tragedy; tragedy is made simple and independent. Pages that are only less than 300 seem so deathlessly delightful. They make me alive, make me come to terms with the scarcities and plenties I feel within myself. The writing comes alive; I come alive.

I feel insane no more. There is no intensity in emotion, but I am writing. There is no sick obsession with melancholy, but I am writing. I am creating new rules for myself to follow, but break them for evolution.

Golly! I have found a great musician just yesterday and everything falls to place, like snow back to lakes.

Under Sirius

On dying moments like these, I wish I was never sensitive to language. Now, I have to convince myself wholly that the subtleties in your voice and intended purposes are a projection—and a shaping—of my own’s from yours.

Under the silver moon, our skins touched but you shy away most genteelly as if this consequence—from what had accumulated before—was unwonted. Your confession began heated, intense, powerful, unequivocal, but crashed like a dandelion’s strength. I saw through hidden figures, of metonymies that came alive, hooking the insides of my pupils, taut.

I wish I was never sensitive to language so that I wouldn’t write pages to you every night: noting my growth, or a lack thereof, sans a full satisfaction. An incompetence would cloud me from proclivities to poetry, and I will be mellow not.

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