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.”