A Warrior Drifting

The war is coming to an end. I'm walking away from the battlefield. I cannot stand the sight of immortals fighting for their lives. It's stupid and I'm exhausted. I will not stand where I stood.
I'm walking away.
What will the universe make of the remaining warriors? They are baffled, you see - softened too. They do not know what they are fighting - why they are fighting - to what end they are fighting. They are like kids- who go on playing games after games - winning or losing does matter to them - but they do not know why. I know why - for another game!
Why fight  when there is no ultimate victory? Remember, everything is a game - your life, my life. You do not fight for mine, neither do I for yours.

Go on, then - have your glory - shine through ages. The history will remember you as a savior - a survivor - perhaps even a hero.
But to me, you're like that dumb kid - only with a more childish game. You are immortal - but you will keep on fighting until you die. To me - you're that dumb kid.

Looking Back

"This is you - staring at something nonexistent - the future. You’re trying hard to picture what it looks like. You’re trying harder to remember it. It could change your world. It could be your world. But you can't - it's unbelievable. Unbelievable past is easiest to remember; unbelievable future, the hardest.

Memory, you see, is a good thing – if only you could remember the future."

Untill you so rightfully miss the silence

And unless you miss friendly voices more,

Until then, go on sir, live through such sorrow,

Wage wisdom tonight - some more

And reason wisely – thus and hence

Fancy dying in peace tomorrow.

But you fail to see the glitch in time

That set universes apart,

Dejected and forsaken

Whence hopeless men do depart

Into worlds of ephemeral being

They sleep in cycles; in cycles awaken.

Look out the brown unused window,

Through the much feared blinding nothing,

What should have been is no longer.

Watch that forlornly creature solemnly think;

As time ceases to tread again

As future to present grows wronger.

As time’s hostility is satiated,

It’d cease to move again.

And in some restless and shaky scene

Abandon you in eternal disdain.

There I’ll stand - looking back,

Watching the whole world move away from me

She wakes me

Every night that I fall exhaustingly to my foreseen death, I’m resurrected by some wicked creature wailing in misty morning. This creature of unfathomable charm that in the first place, by its indifference, almost inspires the free soul out of the physical dimension – now transpires to half-wake his solemn sleep of apathy. 

Dearest, I’m content in my perseverance but I lack direction. I’m at length with my indignation but I am short of anger. Of love songs I’m aware, of love I lack understanding. For love does the world struggle yet I so appear to be incapable of effort in love like the day itself - I fall and rise every day, much like the day itself passes through the event horizon time and again.

But then I ask, what purpose is of love if it were to require effort in breathing. And of what purpose is love if all is – to the indignant man – a result of devil’s interest in mankind or perhaps god’s disinterest? What sort of war is this where the warrior is at the mercy of a sweet disposition of the enemy? 

Why does she wake me then from my sombre grave? Why not, indeed, let me be fallen forever for I will no longer falling when there is no space below. Why does she fail to understand that in such futility what purpose is it to wake – to stand bare feet, with a half-naked mind in front of a door to nowhere - on a road that stretches from nowhere to nowhere? Or to stare at the man who prays out of a barred window – into the air and question to yourself – why is he even alive. What fate had decided on his deserving? 

Remember, this is the door to austere madness that lures the peaceful mind – through its flirtatious ways – the half-naked mind into the world of worldly desire – the world of physical awakening – that perhaps depicts a metaphysical carnage! Here, men are put still – still as stones – between fear and sadness conveniently ignorant of the direness of such door. You speak, dearest, what escape is madness out of sadness for man nurses man for both! Of what purpose is such passage that allows a temporary ignorance – an illusion of attainability? 

Thus answer this, dearest, of what purpose is my awakening to such world where war is prevalent warriors are not, where dreams are prevalent – dreamers are not, where stardom is prevalent – but stars burn!

But she wakes me, and my conscience to her reflects my persuasive innocence. And she is convinced or perhaps conned into believing that I deserve to live – that I deserve to suffer. And with her best intentions, in her completeness and most ardent love, she wakes me.

This near-completeness, this almost perfection is in a way treacherous for the artist as it almost inspires – and I must stress upon almost! It almost inspires the poet into a distressful negation of his wits, the painter into murder of his own precedent – his bare pattern upon which he would lay the caricature. And it could also almost inspire the scientist into questioning the methodology of nature – into how despite the principles of entropy can such simplicity and such iridescence coexist in one form? And at last it will almost inspire the philosopher into wondering why does anything – anything at all but she - exists?

I lay an immense importance on a rather miniscule imperfection – for I fail to see this imperfection. This is why all her beauty and effortlessly blatant completeness only almost inspires the artist – and in actuality fails to inspire. It must not be doubted that true inspiration lies not in perfection or flawlessness or idealism but rather in the unlikely marvel and in the unexpected magnificence in cause of and in spite of its flaws.

So as the day ends, I earnestly rise up to her betrayal to speak for the last time again. I say, “Your perfection fails to inspire me” and that “Life’s astuteness succeeds to inspire me to swoon.”

Freeman

For now they stood in peace,

A million warriors, the soldiers of a condemned race,

They stood in confrontation to one - in the greatest battle

And before that to the greatest chase

to annihilate the last freeman and his despicable rattle.

They were wise men once, driven over the edge –

Pushed through the wall of insanity

Which, as it flexed

Left the most virtuous in that dire vanity -

 Men of steel, melted and resurrected - eternally convexed.

This was no war of blood and fire,

And yet be fought on conventional terms

As both beheld their weapons and armored;

They – with balls and chains and raged tantrums;

He – with his bare feet and his prudence garnered;

They had fought and lost against every freeman,

Millions against one, and yet lost against each

As they pushed each into a corner, they were

Blinded by ethereal gleam; deafened by vociferous screech

As each found his wings and flew northwards!

Wouldn’t they be furious now?

Behind songs of valor and insurgency ,

In that late summer afternoon,

As I, the last freeman rode my dreams of redundancy

Swore to live free of war, or else to swoon!

‘twas hard for them to tug me to this ground

Despite their hordes of ghosts;

Hard, indeed, for such gravity to hold me down.

Yet it was harder for me to surrender on such ruthless coasts

Harder indeed for me in infinity to stay around.

They fail to understand - to grasp onto this singularity

That to be bound is to be free of freedom,

And I’m condemned to a crime – addicted to a thought,

Conditioned to this paradox - existent in abandon -

That by nature – freedom from freedom is much sought

They fail, and yet hail victoriously as war is waged

 - Wise men who once knew that it is essential

To not just live, but to know life

As a mistress of autumn, to consume its soul –

Hail upon me - and my freedom – my precious strife.

I watch the battlefield crumble;

And it seems almost beautiful – the view,

And the sound of carnage –almost amusing;

When it happens – that what I always knew

But never quite believed – so confusing!

The wings find me, and I’m airborne;

To my unfailing choice as freedom’s vice

For once and at last it chooses to rhyme

As every curse would save the cursed, I realize

That I belonged to freedom; freedom was never mine!