Man. Wife. Two sons. One daughter. A tata car. Packets of masala wafers. Immersed. In meaningless. Group activities. In pointless. Logistics. Clicking away. Creating memories. Unable. To savor. To enjoy. To reflect. To meditate. A facade. Of happiness. A picture. Of togetherness. Makes me. Suffocate. I hope. They leave. A selfish thought. I hate. Being reminded. Of the mundane. Yet. It stares. At me. In the face. Leave. Before. I throw up.

Getting Stoned

Stoned last night. Saw clearly. Smiled honestly. Laughed openly. Dissipated anger. Accumulated bitterness. Unadulterated lust. Unbridled love. Unconditional existence. All there. In the clouds. Shining through the stars. Emanating from the flowers. Rustling through the trees. Then I wake up. With a headache. With little recollection. With half a smile. From a dreamless night. Awaiting the next joint. Craving the next fix. Seeking an altered reality. Wanting to get stoned.

Hotel Anguish

Screaming outside my hotel room. A restless night. Culminating. In helpless screams. Of unknown people. Anguished. Full of unrest. Strangers. With disparate identities. With or without homes. With or without family. Strangely restless souls. Put together. By an ignorant hotel manager. On the same floor. Or is it. My imagination. Going wild. Wallowing. In sympathy. For the self. Finding expression. In the anguish of another. The noise in the other room. The shouting of my heart. Their voice of pain. My disturbed soul. Seeking an unknown truth. Seeking happiness. That never existed. Confined to a hotel room. Screaming. Shouting. Calling out. At a muted. But loud frequency. Audible only to myself. And other restless souls.

%d bloggers like this: