A Talkative Poet

I like to write. I cannot explain why but I simply know I do. It seems like the only time I can be my true self with all my eccentricities, fakeness and come to terms with my blasphemous thoughts. Its like right now. I’m kind of panicking. Atleast I should. But I sit here devoid of ideas typing.
I wish to pen down my story someday. After all it’s the only thing everyone’s got. A story of their own. The scariest part is that it inevitably finds itself intertwined with that of certain others. Its like you walk through life as if you’re in a train. And you walk from through various cabins, meeting sets of different people. As you walk in a cabin you become a part of the story of the people already there, and they become a part of yours. Some of those parts fail to etch a line in your brain and thus the white sheet of memory still remains blank. Certain others fill up the same sheet with writings evoking profound emotions within you. Feelings you’d rather not have felt but you’re glad you did since they become the only proof of you being alive. Of you still being able to feel.
Through writing I keep a tangible account of these emotions I go through in different cabins of my personal metaphorical train. The most influential emotion in my walk so far has been this inexplicale pain that I found first while transcending from high school to college. Its like I walked into a brand new bogey and whoa…here comes my messiah!! This pain over the past 3 years has become my walking stick, my guide, my ‘Mother Mary in times of trouble’. Prior to this I was simply plagued with various forms of anger, frustation and moments of happiness. But of late its been this pain that has been the muse seducing out thoughts and words I never considered myself capable of expressing. Its like this sudden upshoot of a tornado in the vaccum within your torso that springs up at these odd moments with no apparent warning or sign, and you’re just smothered. Literally paralysed waiting for it to pass. Like a ghost that comes to haunt you akin to an alarm clock going off when it shouldn’t. And it comes from all directions. An overwhelming wave of nauseating odour of the human condition that leaves you breathless for longer than you can normally survive. It colours what you see, even when you close your eyes and dream. It is your dream, it is your life. It reminds you of the moments you were happy and failed to recognise it because you were too busy trying to preserve it. It floats in unabashed and unstoppable through your strongest fortresses into the deserted landscapes of your mind. God’s plagues on Rameses’s brethren. You’re writhing within and without but you cannot let go of it for without it you are an empty container like many others. It ebbs out in your words. The words you carefully pick to reflect and hide yourself in. The words written in your dreams, with your desires. The words with which you make love to the anonymous. The words you cannot escape, the same ones you hide within. The words so soft. The words which tell you that you've loved and have been loved.