Efforts borne by others are awarded in perfect succession while I gather dust in the beds of my nails. It seems unfair, even as the just nature of the universe swells open for question by the impertinent ego.
Why, I ask the universe.
Of course, I do not receive answers. I have been unable to learn the language of the universe. Its silences, its loud billows, and its quiet chirps. But, this seething loneliness, it proposes the alarming resonance of an early death.
I do know that all these thoughts arise on the substratum of my mind and because I do so, I too suffer. I grab a pillow and shed a few tears in this acknowledgment. Even young tatters have found unity in a patchwork and have begun dreaming.
But, others like me, who have wandered for a moment in absolute confusion, have come back to find no meaning to live. No purpose beckons them – such is the state of this ailment that one doesn’t even know whether there is a life different from this kind.
A true prisoner of the mind.
What will become of us? The sad callings of our hearts will raise no press nor will it perform perfect salutations in our honour. We will be lost in the surrender of the world to its unheard ones. Yet, we will not receive sympathy.