Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Is it the fault of time and its fashion of passing that 
I fend too much with this recurring question, of 
What is to become of me?

What is to become of me? With my plundering curiosity and delicate humour, they suggested me to seek it in Art.

What a genius way to reason, to enquire and to 
answer, to express and banter with the mysteries of this world.

But, the more I indulge into art, I realize I am becoming more and more like Basil Hallward 
from The Picture of Dorian Gray.

The need for privacy became evermore innately loud and everyday before writing even a funny caption or a piece of advice to a friend, I fear if I put too much of 'myself' out there.

Fearful, if people can see right through my deep seated insecurities, and I know there's no particular shame in admitting that I had always preached a laborious perfection, and toxic resilience.

If I am living seven million moments everyday, I assure you there are only a couple out of them that allow me to accept this human flaw of getting extinguished and bankrupt of emotions other than self pity and negation. Today, I spared one of them in writing this dreadful account of my private mind.

In the other major millions of moments, I am torturing myself consistently to be consistent in productive endeavours. Even though, nothing substantial ever comes out of it.

Yet, I don't know if I should call it my selfishness or lameness that I am still trying so hard to be ambiguous about it all.

And insinuating all this in favour of others, but if you see me, if you really see me one of these days, 
I beg you not to talk about it, for you are more likely to bump into me in one of the unfortunate 
moments I have in majority.

Instead, hand me a dead flower and smile so subtly that even I spy your intentions, and 
somehow, I am certain in the crisp of the petals, I will find all my answers.

Then I could free time and science from my pointing accusation of bringing the death of me.
For, I am enough every second, and  have always been enough to grant a lovely sacrament to each of my living breath that 
I am wasting in carving perfection.
~Bless