In this world, you are incarcerated;
As an outcast, you are liberated.

When people are born in prisons;
Little do they know about freedom,
Little lesser about authenticity.

Running to yourself, running away from the world;
Running away from the prison of this din.
Suicide is a crime and euthanasia, not worth a dime.

Those fake lights, those spotlights, that dreadful fame are so foreign, so alien.
An epilogue, an epitaph, an afterthought, an outcast - that is the comfort zone.

Why is this prison adamant on snatching away the only thing that has belonged to me?

My solace, my solitude - the romanticism of being alone and outcast - do not take away my blanket.

Winter is home. I know not any light, I dread it.
An epilogue, an epitaph, an afterthought, an outcast. I am finally home.

My armour is my companion for so long, it feels like a blanket, little lost, not forlorn.

Let me scamper away and count the galaxies and locate which part of pixie dust do I represent.

An epilogue, an epitaph, an afterthought, an outcast.

It has no slander.
It does not chatter.
It does not spread falsities.

It is truthful, honest and comforting.
My fantasy land is full of books, sans any humans.
What ultimate joy!

One day I will write my fairytale of bookdom.
The Bibliophile Kingdom, the wanderlust to eternal libraries.
If I could read all the books in the world, I would.  

The earth contrarily is so false, so illusory - just so human.

This is where the magic happens;
solitude is of utmost integrity.

If I were a dew;
I would be the most travelled.
If I were the grass;
I would be the most still.

I am a hermit, unaware about my surroundings;
knowing all is interconnected within.

I am lost and in that I found myself;
I belong nowhere and in that I became of the universe.

It is happening once again
I am getting addicted to my drug
I thought I was finally over it
But bigger fractals keep reiterating it

It is happening once again
I am spiralling into depression
That source of an artist

Where is home, I searched it everywhere
In the rooms of my soul, at the corners of betrayals.

That inner child, that outer vile.
That immense hope, that long road.
That joyous fervour, that tenuous branch.
That life's river, that roof's rope.
All good. All over.

I talk to the plants, they say they are bored
I wonder why I am not them.

I feel jarred by the pollution, marred by the confusion;
so profound and superficial in human things.

If I were a soil perhaps?
Wait, I am. Which type, they say?

I tell them, I will become the soil that will grow them (plants) in all adversities
That I shall never be concrete

That as I return to being who I always were - a soil.
I will never betray plants - the sole ally in this world,
And perhaps also in the after?

But does that realm require soil to grow plants, I ruminate.

Plants tell me to have patience, to breathe;
One day when they turn trees, they will give elixir of wisdom.
In that promise, I lived for this realm as much as I wished to run to another.
But the trees make life more bearable, otherwise I would have long left.

No matter how bad the atrocities, nature never stopped giving to its exploiter;
We called it abuse, nature called it existence.
The tree is humble, it is growing in stillness, no matter what is inflicted.

They are the sole reason, hope exists on this side of the veil.
If the trees can endure humans, why cannot I?

Of course I can and with that thought another moment in time, in epochs, goes by.