Saturday, January 3, 2015

I can't live like this,
hanged like a calender from the walls of capitalism,
I feel like a daily wage labourer, who breaks down numbers, sheaving datas, blunting the sharp edges of words. 

Like a photoframe of a different time, posted in an oblivion corner of existence, plastic smiles, meaningless euphoria, like dust pile on me. 


Everyday I feel stuck in a Freudian dream, circling the semi-circles of my life, like strewn papers and polythene bags floating under the summer sun on lousy afternoons, taking half flights, in and out of the loop of sanity.


The smoke that fills my lungs, unwinds those caged birds, old and young, opening doors to the dreams, that run like water in the maze, wafting in the vacuum of an utopian world and melting like tears in the morning ray that illuminates this dystopian world, where everyday I find myself drowning without a trace.


Ashes pile up everyday,

remnants and residues of philosophies and ideologies,
turning into dust that rest over the books, left to rot like these words in some unnamed draft of my gmail.

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