My Salvation Notes
Dear ardently curious reader,
​
What do you do, when your day commences with your mind concocting an otherworldly subconscious reel?
A dream about a world that applauds seeking pleasure,
On a yacht built like a voluminous ethereal entity for Sirens,
Like planes slashing through the wind, sky and waters akin,
With each floor rising in a slow rhythm, sometimes stopping short,
Otherwise stretching out to expansive plateaus of leisure boards,
Girders crossing over one another like a convoluted orgy of sharp lines
and robust slender surfaces,
Readying the creatures on-board to make a spectacle of the seemingly
selfless act of deriving pleasure merely for the other,
That furthers the thought of harmony in provocation instead of the
selfishness of self arousal;
There you lie, as naked as a kitten, purring to the touches of your lover,
Heedless to the eyes of the watchers when all you feel is warmth and
acceptance in their cutting gaze.
​
What do you do, when this sense of peace is disrupted by the wake into reality?
The evanescence of the dream brings forth the dread of facing
a harsher state of mind in the coming hours of the day,
When the tacit covenant between humans about reaching new heights
in this run-of-the-mill life is to be concurred undoubtedly,
The multitudinous of the incoming surge of thoughts crowding
the transitional gateway from fantasy to reality;
There you lie, waiting for the adrenaline you desire so much to kick in
to convert your sense of dread to a tangible sense of being
which presents itself as a ray of hope and opportunity to
make it a yet another pseudo triumphant day.
​
What do you do, when the morning brings a day devoid of a joyous spark,
Watching life pass by through the steam produced by all the overly ambitious and formidably capricious machines we call humans,
A steam brimming with sparks of these bromide actions,
With one ignition enough to cause shooting sparks of scruple,
When the sole means to accept this feeling of paralysis is to live the day dispassionately,
When you are enveloped with a shame that allows you to be able to pronounce such a judgement upon man, upon your own self, to be aware of this emotion within you,
Gnawing at your insides, waiting for the outside to collapse just as the insides already have;
There you lie, wondering if there was any use to fight back,
To know that you are the one who has lost in the surrender of your fellow men.
​
When the day passes by like uninhibited winds, and your body salutes what’s to come,
giving in to the slavery of the malignant repetition;
Who are my masters?
The young woman in the drawing room overlooking the sea,
The bald man in his Den looking out on a vast canopy of trees,
The child in his nursery of a size comparable to your whole house,
The old widow in her lounge with four other rooms to spare,
The dainty lass in her bedroom expecting an overseas phone call from her
foreign bred fiancé?
Will the unbalanced power struggle ever break free with the everyday banalities of the common man to be atleast halfway good or satiated approximately?
​
You soon notice, the magic in dusk begets an illusion of momentary happiness,
When the objects in the mirror of the sky are more content than they appear,
The cosmos speaks to you to love you until you love yourself,
In the curtain of purple and orange, you see a sliver of beaming white,
A cure to this fixation on transcendence, that is, happiness is self contained
and self sufficient.
You then begin a new premeditated dream,
A utopian world of riding whales akin sea horses and exploring the waters,
Not bound by the ability to breathe, when it’s been granted to live life as it comes,
With the fever of hunt and expedition to explore amidst the clear blue painting of a sky and the reflective transparent blue sheet of waters revealing a side of the world
which is not probed at,
A perception analogous to the right way of living, irrespective of imagination or realism,
To be able to witness a revolution on the meaning of life and
engage in these deviations in thoughts,
For, the people who have lived have found gratification in this liberating deduction
that it is the “I”.
It is I that matter, that my mind has to churn for, and that my love has to suffice for.
​
Love,
Your fervently hopeful and moderately scrupulous fellow work-in-progress human realist.