TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

Will you believe me if I told you that a simple writing assignment
could actually make you want to kill yourself? But, that’s how it is,
honey. No, no; I am not talking metaphorically or using a hyperbole. I
mean it. Suicide; cold-blooded self-murder, all because of a single
writing assignment. It is not always that simple. It is not always
that you can produce a masterpiece of a write-up. And that realization
is enough to set your suicidal-self loose.

I write. I write whatever comes to my mind, and more often than not,
it is in verse. I like writing. I am not a public author, I do not
publish books; I do wish to, but I do not crave it. I write for
pleasure and for the liberation from having to contain my feelings in
the form of emotion. Isn’t it always a ‘phew’ moment when you share
your guilt and disgust with a dear friend? Well, in my case, my ‘chum’
would be poetry. Sometimes, prose.

Coming back to the present continuous, it is this dissatisfaction, a
creeping reminder of how unimaginative and how much of a non-creative
person you are that makes you want to rip your own mind off and
dissect it in search of ideas. You cannot think; you cannot stop
thinking! A mad paradox possesses you and strips you of dignity. You
sit in class, watching people around you read out their creative write-
ups, and you watch sycophants appreciate every piece of writing,
creative or otherwise. And then, it hurts. It hurts that you cannot
gather the courage to share your writing with everyone in class – for
a variety of reasons. You’re afraid people will mock it, you’re
intimidated by the other writers, and you’re empty-handed in class.
Your mind begins to wander. You can’t let it go. The fact that you
were unproductive in what you had earmarked as your favorite course
earlier this semester begins to gnaw at your conscience. Everything
becomes a blur, and the chirpy laughter around you seems to be
strangling you to suffocation. Why is everyone so cheerful? They’ve
written ordinary pieces of writing, nothing phenomenal. Why are they
so smug and content? Or, am I wrong? Maybe they are creative; I just
can’t see it, I cannot accept it.
And then Suicide nudges. It begins as a thought - a slow, small
strategy to divert you from the monotony of a Creative writing class.
“What if I were to kill myself?”… “Is it really that hard?”… “If I
slash my wrists at 10 tonight, by the time everyone else wakes up next
morning, I’ll be long gone”… “No more of this drudgery, no more of
this drudgery called ‘life’” - sharp and painful, these thoughts. You
might wonder if I am insane. Why is it that my inability to write
affects me so much? Writing is at one end, suicide is at the other.
No, no. It is not like that. I have always been called ‘creative’. All
my report cards, right from 1st Standard till the 12th, have deemed me
‘creative’. I might not be an eloquent speaker, a methodical writer, a
mathematical whiz, a perseverant pupil, but creative I have always
been. Why, then, this stagnation in thought? Why, then, this sinking
feeling of loss and wastefulness? Why am I so sensitive to others’
opinion of me? So what if they do not find me creative? So what if
three-four months of a goddamned creative writing course actually
disproves my ‘creativity’? Will I ever be able to write again? And, if
I cannot write, I see no point in experiencing life. I have had enough
of it.

Hence, I have made a decision. It pains me to announce that I am never
going to write again - voluntarily, at least. I am going to shut down
my blog, erase all my poetry, and disappear from the overpopulated
world of self-styled writers. And I am sure no one will miss my
absence. It is no big deal. Nothing ever is. Imagine! Once I decide
never to write again, no one can criticize me! No one can tell me what
can be better in my poetry, or what they think of it. I do not have to
care. No one will bother racking their pathetic little brains trying
to find faults in each and every word I type. Boy, shouldn’t they be
relieved? This fluttering of my heart every time I post a poem on my
blog, and the consequent suffering that I undergo due to heaps of
criticism and indifference – all of it will be gone forever!
Of course, I will miss that bunch of compliments by a couple of good
friends who’ve liked my writing no matter what. But that’s okay.
They’ll understand. What’s not to understand? Something that you’ve
always considered your eternal passion whirls around and stabs you in
your heart. It’s got to hurt, right? Oh, please don’t tell me I do not
have the right to suffer. I am not sharing my suffering with you in
the form of poetry, am I? Let me be, just let me be.

So, this is it. A last snippet of writing I thought I’d share with
you.

And if you believed that piece of crap, you’re not as smart as you
thought you were.

Set me free, Jeremiah!

A revolving will,
flitting from A to Z.
The Alphabet, a world
that knew no stead!
A revolution, an attempt.
Failed forever.

Set me free, Jeremiah!
Set me free!

I am a free bird,
caged for far too long!
My wings are clipped,
my flight is lost!
Not to the winds,
but to thy chains!

Set me free, Jeremiah!
Set me free!

I shall fly
with my mind.
Soar the skies
with my eyes!
With freedom
I shall soon die.
Gladly so.

Set me free, Jeremiah.
You better set me free.

Faith

A concrete reality,
weighing down my heart
is seeking weightlessness.
Defying gravity
of two worlds apart
like a new-born consciousness.

Faith is never too easy,
neither is it ever too late.
Like an act of suicide,
ever so rotten,
ever so frequent,
ever so fresh.

To throw oneself
into the arms of Unknown..
like a freefall!
No insurance!

What if I am deceived,
betrayed and heart-broken?

Go on.
You were saying?

Yes, what if?

Or,So what?

Trapped

Little do I know of rat-traps and nets,
but feeling trapped is only human.
A part of you caught naked,
and yet you're cast of still steel.
The heart thumps loud underneath,
but of what use is its presence?
When judgement needs but intellect,
a tiny flutter undoes the knot.
You're still tied to a mirage
but then the heart is silent.
Ruthless and cold, the silence.

Confessions

I am going for a Creative Writing class now.
Maybe I'll finally learn something. Ha.