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A creature so hopeless.
The embodiment of boredom.
Flips through his life repeating the same sentences often,
Never getting to the end in time,
Placing the bookmark every now and then,
Fails at wooing Routine,
Ultimately gives in to immediate reinforcements.
I've realised that I have taken life too seriously. So, I delved into absurdist thought. The idea is so fascinating. There's no meaning to this life, to this universe, to this reality of ours. And the protagonist is going insane, trying to find a meaning to this meaningless existence, toying between societal perception and individual perception. In the entirety of his/her journey, he/she meets a variety of people, engages in crazy doings, takes the unwalked path, develops a purpose to prolong this mundane existence, eventually leaves it and drowns in melancholy, haphazardly moves to another purpose, then another, at some point maybe religion, then back to reality, unleashes  creativity in the most disdain places, unleashes creativity in the most affluent places, moves to social work, gives out opinions on social realities, and fantasy(utopian society), finally commits to a normal job, earns well, gets married, most likely has children, gives love to them and dies, probably peacefully.
On different days,
He became different,
And yet remained the same.
He was amusing.
He was otherworldly.
He had something in him,
Which made him eerily different.

He listened.
He listened wholeheartedly.
He was the only one,
Who felt real.
He peeked into thoughts.
He responded in silences.
He captured the soul and the heart,
So effortless was his gaze.
A gaze that brought smile,
A gaze that brought stillness,
A gaze that sparked question,
A gaze that sparked wonder.
The man delves in the grim settings of rooms,
Tickling bones of the dark,
Perusing silences so beautiful and monstrous,
Gazing at oddities so dead and alive.

These settings communicate a bunch of languages,
Sometimes, even gibberish.
Wrapped in a trance, the man becomes a tune in the song.
He becomes the friend of the loner.
He becomes the itch of the room.
Pouring out his reality, he becomes the air of the room.
A man lurks in the shadows,
Runs towards hope.
The night sings eerily.
This is a very sincere attempt by me at haiku.
The country,
Being bewitched and fed in its reality,
By the manifestations of
skulduggery and humanity.
This poem is on the farmers' protest in India.
Finishing the last sip, I took the pause,
Reminiscing the scintillating flaws,
Conjuring the crowded applause,
Staring at the emptied walls,
Living the ******* cause.
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