I wake up in the words I wield,
In the sentences I write,
Halfway up—and down halfway.
I see through thoughts
That are not mine.
They are from my predecessors.
When I look in the mirror,
It says:
[ERROR: TRUE SELF NOT FOUND]
So I smile and pretend
To not be affected by the mockery
Of my existence.
Time stutters—
And my brother butters
Some toast in the kitchen.
He pays for my needs.
And I eat and sleep and write,
And the toast he roasts
Never burns my throat.
Somewhere, the God
Is either laughing or distracted
Or maybe thinking about his feet.
In between,
A spider loots His kingdom
And prays for forgiveness.
I wish I were God—
I\'d be fair.
Oftentimes, I\'d find
My dream dress lying
Across my bathroom tile.
I step over it, and
Later I realise
I have made a mistake.
But I do not apologize.
People ask, \"You are a writer.
You must be reading a lot!
Tell us, what is the purpose of life?\"
I say unto them,
\"To ask what the question means.\"
They nod in awe.
They think it’s wisdom.
I say it’s not.
It’s just manipulation
With a little bit of charm.
I once fell in love
With a girl
Who didn’t believe in doors
But in Picasso\'s cubes.
She walked between walls
And lived in tubes.
Once I asked, \"Fly with me!\"
She said,
\"Boundaries are the only real thing.\"
She was right.
She disappeared after a while.
And never met.
I stayed behind,
Arguing with the doorknob:
\"Tubes are stretchable.
And sometimes boundaries too.\"
The moon doesn\'t care about me.
And I do not care about the moon either.
We both are utterly selfish.
We reflect each other.
We break each other.
I write poems that are absurd.
But it\'s real—the pain is real—
The meaninglessness is real—
As real as the breaking of a glass
If it falls on a floor.
As real as the cracks of this earth,
As if desiccated from a century.
As real as my desire
Of having her in my arms.
As real as the sequence
Of my unfulfilled desires.
One day, I will say it all again—
Quite clear and precise—
The day our hearts will be pure,
And our minds simple.