Alive

Bottled rage. Tranquil sage. Heavy obsolete thought processes.
Falling, slowly falling into versions of real world. Rumors fall apart as smoke arises and
amplifies only the distinct visions of hypocrisy that made us clutch our hearts saying, “Oh no,
this isn’t me!? Is it!?”
And the devil smiled mirthfully, finally letting the doors of truth fall open. Wails and cries of
people who’ve already been inside, coming out devastated, ragged and broken but so real that
it terrifies the horcruxes of mankind. As I stepped in the fire set ablaze, portraying all the
follicles of identity that I borrowed from others to be one of the heroes.
To be known. To be found. To be born.
As a mind that is shared, the heart that is bare and a life that is borrowed from others. A
product of a wretched construct, oversimplifying the mundane and the fancy, pounding down
legacies in frenzy, terrorizing for not being the same, acting the same, talking the same and
walking the same. And a soul becomes synonymous to a statue being displayed in a museum,
to bolster the choices that were never self-made.
I saw these statues breaking down in that room as heaven took the reins and slipped away
while hell marched into the reality. Vicariously so, they kept snatching and feeding on
attachments that were poison incarnate but the habituation was so delicious that even sane
minds voluntarily stumbled into loads of these. And as we borrowed pieces of others since the
moment we could talk, people kept giving shadows while plucking away the light.
So much so that you never believed you were light, you had light or that deserved it.
And we kept issuing sabbaticals to flounder onto the remnants that maybe we would be
found. Hoping, tired, imagining, trying, working, mellowing, dying. Maybe…
That maybe never ended and the sun never rose to show you the truth, so the fire had to. The
fire had to unearth and tarnish and annihilate what was not you, to show you what you were.
The euphemistic way of putting is, is that it broke you… still will never capture what it did.
And it evidently is a composition of chaos and crime, whims and rhyme, eloquence with
time, but it brought back heaven to you.
And you call it terrifying and I call it being alive!