Everywhere I go, I need not be on my own;
But that is what I always chose.

Everywhere I went, I built my cave
But that is how I evaded the maze.

I don't get humans, I was not socialized enough.
If only I knew how to be shallow, I could have been normal.

I am in love with my absurdities.
I might as well be a cave animal, far removed from sociological obligations.

The most precious is time.
That you donate to consolidating the voice of the hurt, the bruised and the abused.  

The most valuable is wisdom.
That you gather from books and life.

The most comfort is in being alone.
That which nature teaches you.

Decades flew building self reliance;
My solitude was always my defiance.

Loyalty is not the default nature of humans;
It makes you shudder with how easily people can betray you.

And you wait, you wait endlessly in your cave;
For that one person whose value system can be as impeccable as yours.

Hoping that the epitaph will not read: that wait may turn out to be futile.

Misfit, forever; in a world devoid of integrity.
Solitary traveller of life.

Do I want to be swimming in money at seventy all alone? No.
Do I want to live in a house but not a home? No.
Do I want the label of marriage and live in an empty castle devoid of respect and emotions? No.

Money as an instrument of control, excessive opulence covering the blemishes of emotional abuse;
The extravagant veneer masking the emptiness of emotional betrayals.

All that castle of avarice will come tumbling down; time after time.
Because it is an illusion.
Life is not money and greed, neither are they bandages for a damaged, breathing soul.

That obnoxious smugness brought by power, fame and money;
It poisons chains of DNA with trauma.
The trauma that cannot be outrun, not outdone.

As a generation pattern breaker, you would think;
Going averse to power, money and fame would rid your DNA of the emotional void
And yet all the three keep chasing you; triggering the horrors of your abused ancestors.

Only if the fuel that ran this world was emotions - I would outrun the danger of becoming my ancestor.

Could money buy loyalty? Could power assure morality? Could money buy wisdom?

Only if the fuel that ran this world was emotions - I would outrun an economic abuser.

Only if the fuel that ran this world was emotions - we would not be approaching dystopia.

Money- the myopia, love - the hypermetropia;
Fame- the myopia, respect - the hypermetropia.
Co-dependency - the myopia, self-reliance -the hypermetropia.

That trauma driven hyper independence that refuses to be the ancestors;
That trauma driven obsession with self reliance eliminating the need of an abuser;
Only if the fuel that ran this world was emotions - we would not be approaching myopic dystopia.

If people lived through their souls, only then would they know the absurdity of money, power and fame; those vapors and dust - all redundant in cemeteries.

This world is the ostentatious macabre.
How does nature, the pristine; survive this horror?

They are piling, like the dust on an unused radio,
All that shopping, bursting out of shelves fast filling up.

They are turning pale as the years go by;
Mixed with the new ones that disturb the order.

All those markers jutting out and hundreds of titles later;
One would think I would have all of life's questions answered.

These books are all white, yellow and musty;
Some waiting to be read, some waiting to be held up again.

Yet something is missing, the speed of youth in reading them.
As time has taken over, I have become a purposeful and slower reader.

Now I measure my maturity by the duration that one book spends on my bedside;
Before returning to their congested shelf.
This is how I know - I grew up.

As you flip those pages, you know you cannot capture that captivating essence from those books.
You cannot make a scent of the old books, neither can you store the wisdom of age in bottles.
This is how I know - I grew up.

Now I measure my maturity by the duration that one book spends on my bedside;
Before returning to their congested shelf.
This is how I know - I grew up.

If the world was built by people who could not see,
Would we be able to see the beauty within?

Would we be perceptive of the windows inside,
rather than gaze the surroundings like a predator tracking their prey?

If we were blind, would we acquire the most astute sense of aesthetics?
For who has seen beauty, but the blind alone.

The universe is nothing but darkness and therefore, the most beautiful.
The power of darkness resides in the inward eye.

If we were blind, would we acquire the most astute sense of aesthetics?
For who has seen beauty, but the blind alone.
The blind do not have to meditate, their life is a meditation.

Why is it we have never been to a star
and yet when we gaze into the night sky;
those nebula of gases, light years away look fascinating,
which beauty are they emanating?

The beauty of the perceiver, the beauty of a blank slate;
where you know what you know not.

The universe is nothing but darkness and therefore, the most beautiful.
The power of darkness resides in the inward eye.

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.