A Poem Rumi Forgot to Complete

 And then I try to write. To vent. To rant my heart out. But, The choices, the mistakes, the love, the regrets, the passion, the desire, the demons, the respect, the reason, the logic, the emotions - everything - seem to disappear like they never existed.  From where should I start?  There's no beginning , no ending - just a vicious cycle - that keeps on repeating over and over again . My biggest regret will always be hurting people with pure intentions. I never wanted to but somehow I always did.  How to let go of that guilt?   There's no way, right? We have to live with it till the end.  The end that has faded like our old versions. And that's why we carry that guilt each day, hoping to never make the same mistake again but somehow we always make that exact choice/decision.   Shutting people off, isolating ourselves, and not talking to anybody help?  Sylvia Plath writes, " I need a father. I need a mother . I need some older, wiser being to cry to."

 And then ...   There must be something missing - a void - for it is necessary.  The melancholy of man  can't  be described  by someone who has fulfilled all his desires. The grief, the emptiness, the bleakness is nothing but an artist's perspective. All those great  artists,  the world has ever  produced,  had to go through something ineffable. What if there was no pain? What if there was no grief? What if there was no sadness? Don't you think how empty the world could have been?  The darkness of life makes a man ponder over everything.  I know,  I know it is absurd, I know life has no meaning, everything is meaningless, there is no purpose of life  and  we are lost because we are trying to make sense of  everything,  when there is nothing but an infinite despair. Every decision is a decision against something else. You step into the shoes of rebellion and leave the conformist behaviour. But, then again, what is the point? Be a rebel, be a conformist, but for what? For who

I died today. Or yesterday or maybe that day when I realized nothing made sense anymore. But I died. How  did I  die? I don't know.  But,  why  did I  die?  Sigh. The list is long , don't you think?   Maybe,  your words killed me.  Maybe,  that day, you said something that pierced into my ears, tearing my eardrums  apart,  and losing my hearing abilities.  Or maybe, that  day,  when father showed his disappointment in me, making me feel like a cockroach - naah, not a cockroach but something more disgusting, like an insect who  cannot  do anything except be a burden on others.  Or  maybe,  that  day,  when my mother scolded me for being too needy, killing all my emotions, feelings, and passions.  Oh, no  honey . I couldn't die possibly because of these things.  I was  tougher  than that.  Then what killed me? Now, when I recall, I don't remember the exact day or time or reason that might have killed me.  Perhaps,  that day, when you left me alone in this world, leaving m

You guys ask if I have forgotten about my blog. Absolutely Not! But something has happened - life! Life happened! This morning, I was thinking about the topic for today's blog but couldn't find one. Isn't it strange?  You want to write about your thoughts  but   you  just  can't find the right words,  the right  emotions, and all that.   You are feeling everything , deep  down  you  know what you want to write about, what you need to communicate about  but  you  just  can't make people see it the way you see it.  This  leads me to another  thing,  the people!  This week has made me realize the importance of people. People are so freaking necessary  but  not all people. People with whom you can share your pain, who speak your language, who don't need words to know what  are you  thinking, who can be with you in the darkest moments of your life.  I  don't agree  with the notion that happiness multiplies when shared.  It doesn't  but  I  do  agree with the

"Was I just dreaming?"  Was he? His mother was repeatedly screaming over him– screaming and screaming, in that voice of hers. God, he wanted to shut her down but he was not his usual self in this dream– or maybe his usual self wasn’t him here. Who was he? He could barely pin anything down. She screamed and screamed at him to get out of bed, so he did. He got up and out of bed, and he stared at her. His mother went silent.  He went downstairs and ate breakfast, but as he sat eating, he realized that he had no idea who he was. He had no idea about his profession, age or anything. He didn’t even know his name.  It occurred to him that he might ask his mother who he was– but no. Somehow, he was sure that it would be no use, asking her. Then, a strange thought wriggled into his head.  He wanted to see her dead body.  The body he loved the most, but never touched. He knew he was in a dream but he also knew something else, in that strange dream-way– something more magical– more evil

Shadows of the Soul Something new happened. Something that had never happened before– that he had never imagined happening before.  He wanted to kill someone.  For the first time in his life, he wanted to kill someone– it was the millionth wrong thing he’d ever wanted to do to someone else, but before this time, this day, it had never been death. He needed someone else’s death, now, suddenly, to bring him satisfaction.  For the millionth time in his life, the devil in him was winning. That was it, of course. It wasn’t him, not really him – the man, himself, he would never truly want to do a thing like that. Like any of these things. He was a good man, after all.  "It’s the devil, I am sure. It’s him . He makes me do these things," he sobbed. Into the mirror, so that he could see himself sobbing and be sure that he wasn’t evil.  Just as quickly, though, he turned on himself. "But the devil does not exist! Nothing exists!-- and nothing matters! I am the only one who is abo