a versatile poet once said, "out beyond the world of the wrongdoings, and the rightdoing, there is a field. i will meet you there". he must have been really versatile to lie right on the face of the king or the god he served when he penned these words along with a bunch of other crap. the words that are pleasing to the ear, the words that give a sense of 'a higher truth' for a second, the words which you stumble upon occasionally, and they take you out strolling in 'the field beyond wrongdoings and rightdoings', and you spin into the numbness, talking to your beloved, ramming the one you lust, driving the car whose paper cuttings you collect. but in the end, the dream-spin finds an end as you fall back, headfirst, on the earth. let me tell you one thing. there is no fucking field like that.
the poets are a clever species. they do not need equipments or masks or methlabs. they can write drugs. anytime they want, free at their will. and the drugs they create, are more powerful than the namely ones you could go to jail for. because they leave no trace of guilt. they only leave delusion, sedation, and a pinch of sorrow. after reading a bunch of lines, you feel as if a hole has been punched in your chest by a molten rod. while sometimes you find yourself wandering in the bushes of your own mind, merrily, with beer in your grip. i am telling you, they are a clever species. see, many drugs come and go, but poetry survives. evolves.
those who have contracted an addiction, folks like me, you could never go back. so don't even try. yes, love has torn us, friendship has shredded us, the lambs we pet will evolve into lions and wolves and will turn against us. that is how it goes. but finding solace through jumbled words ain't no bravery. spending your new year's eve on a terrace, with a bunch of mere acquaintances, drunk and drugged and whistling and humming, reading out the lines you thought were written for you by famous men, and applauding while the other broken people do so, ain't no comfort. remember, comfort comes from confrontation. and pasts do leave stains. nuns do get pregnant and saadhus do fuck. make peace with youself and dance for the rest of your days. and say no to drugs.
till the nature's last call.
make peace.
the poets are a clever species. they do not need equipments or masks or methlabs. they can write drugs. anytime they want, free at their will. and the drugs they create, are more powerful than the namely ones you could go to jail for. because they leave no trace of guilt. they only leave delusion, sedation, and a pinch of sorrow. after reading a bunch of lines, you feel as if a hole has been punched in your chest by a molten rod. while sometimes you find yourself wandering in the bushes of your own mind, merrily, with beer in your grip. i am telling you, they are a clever species. see, many drugs come and go, but poetry survives. evolves.
those who have contracted an addiction, folks like me, you could never go back. so don't even try. yes, love has torn us, friendship has shredded us, the lambs we pet will evolve into lions and wolves and will turn against us. that is how it goes. but finding solace through jumbled words ain't no bravery. spending your new year's eve on a terrace, with a bunch of mere acquaintances, drunk and drugged and whistling and humming, reading out the lines you thought were written for you by famous men, and applauding while the other broken people do so, ain't no comfort. remember, comfort comes from confrontation. and pasts do leave stains. nuns do get pregnant and saadhus do fuck. make peace with youself and dance for the rest of your days. and say no to drugs.
till the nature's last call.
make peace.
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