Caged

Caged

A prison
Not of my own making
But masquerading
as mine
It taunts me
An illusion
So real in appearance
So fearsome
So forbidding
Leaves me forlorn
and weeping
Alone
Unable to express
To share
my burden of despair
Sighs and tears
do me no good
Escape seems impossible
The universe, it mocks me
For my desires
      my dreams
I am a denizen
of a world I want no part of
Debarred
from my Ideal
Will freedom ever be mine?

Liberation

Not the greatest poetry perhaps, but straight from the heart:

Liberation

Free spirit
Bohemian
You cannot be confined
You must not be
Why then do you try
To cast yourself in a mold
So utterly foreign
To your deepest nature?
You will never be
One of them
You will never own
The same stripes.
One cannot change
One's very soul.
You were born to be free
To speak with the sun and the moon and the stars
Step lightly in the river
Converse with the wind
Pontificate with fire
Rest with the earth
To be at ease entirely
With the foliage that reaches for the sky
And the green folks that reside within.
To hear the bugle call
Of another universe
Entirely of your own making
And yet already alive
Your sirens, my dear, they will not be ignored.
Your muses, too many to be numbered,
Will not be quieted.
The itch in your fingers, in your bones,
Will not be denied.
How much longer will you run?
How much further?
Where will you escape to?
A forsaken place where poetry holds no meaning?
Where prose is so prosaic as to be utterly functional?
Where art is a by-the-by, only seldom indulged in to aimlessly pass the hours?
Will you thus wrong your body and soul?
Can you not see how blessed one is who can see beyond the mortal, the physical, the human?
Foolish, blind soul, return to your native hearth.
Accept thy name so presciently bestowed
And refuse to cave to dreary familiarity
                                      safe practicality
                                    pragmatic reality
                                       lacklustre duty
For you have a duty to yourself, bright being,
To not let the light die from your heart.
To keep alive the poetry that resides there
Despite your best attempts to squash it.
And to nurture the music, ever-present
As a note, a melody, an instrument, a song.
Paint those vistas only you can see.
You, my dear, do wrong yourself when you suggest
That such gifts are less bountiful
Than the worldly knowledge and political acumen you seek.
In seeking to know human pain and love and joy
You, my dear, perform one of the highest functions available to a human being.
Proudly deploy all that has been given to you
For there is only one of you
And one day the world shall hear
Of the unbearable sweetness that plagues you.

Thoughts

These last few days have been rather ghastly for the world. Ghastly, and a little relentless.

Today, on a walk down windy, rain-washed streets, I thought: Is this the Earth's way of mourning? Does it keen through these gusts in continuing sorrow and drizzle unstoppable tears?

I was comforted by the poetry in those thoughts, a little to my chagrin. Am I shallow to be so easily comforted? Shallow and selfish? Then, I realized that it was merely a release through expression that consoled me. 

Besides, what can one do in retaliation but live? Live boldly, our flames burning brighter against the darkness in exultant defiance and painful knowledge of the uncertain brevity of life. No matter what monsters seem to descend amongst us, they cannot wipe out life and joy. 

A year and a half ago, when the world was shocked at the brutality unleashed in Peshawar, I wondered if compassion could survive in such a world. I wondered how human beings could unleash such terror. 

But as we hear of more and more that could make us doubt our humanity, I become conversely convinced of the true goodness that lies in our hearts. Human beings can be extraordinarily compassionate. Most of us continue to lead regular lives, laughing and loving, and clutching those closest to us closer still when we hear of tragedy. In my own life, I have faced nothing but kindness. Perhaps this is my good fortune, but I cannot be convinced that we are selfish, not kind within. Some intuition tells me otherwise. Something tells me that we can be inspired to become our best selves, to soar to unbelievable heights, as much as we can be goaded to the basest of crimes.

I hope and pray that our faith in humanity is not further tested. If it is, as I am afraid it is likely to be, I hope we prove to be up to the task.

May the souls of those we lost rest in peace.

The Return of the Prodigal Blogger, now a B.A. in Economics

Me and my dad, who has given me every opportunity and allowed me to diverge from the beaten path. Love you, Nanna. Notice the spectacles in my right hand.

      Since my slightly premature birth, this is the first time I've ever been early for anything. I'm that friend everyone has who has no conception of time. This very post is more than a month late. It's not that I ever intend to be late to anything, and I'm an eternal optimist. It is just the way of things. Fate.

However, when I do something, I evidently do it in style. So I graduated an entire year early, much to my own shock. I lived in denial for a few months, coming up with dozens of alternate plans that involved me staying in college longer. Ultimately, the prospect of not being a student after fifteen years (not even counting my Montessori days) was too tempting. Deciding to switch from my Honors English major to an English minor was considerably harder, but the right decision for me. Donning that gown a year earlier than my fellow juniors was strange - it was rather lonely on that stage. Apart from my family being there, the whole ceremony was rather underwhelming. There was no grand commencement speech, no 'this is it' moment. I even nodded off during one of the speeches after the stress of finals week.

But just like college is more than the sum of its academic parts, graduation is more than the ceremony and certificate. It's a huge milestone.

Graduation means facing a world without timetables, exams, classes - without an overarching structure to fall into - for the first time since we were three or four years old. This love-hate relationship with the restrictions of academic life turns into alarm at the sudden liberation from mandates. Unless you plan to go directly to graduate school (I don't), the freedom that seemed so delightful when paper deadlines were looming suddenly becomes rather threatening. What am I if not a student?

It's time to find out.

Stay tuned to this space for more.