Tuesday, January 6, 2009

January Blacks

There are days , some hours of those days , when -

the morning full of winter sunshine is devoured into an empty space , a blackhole , that is your heart...

the twitter of birds inspires no poetic delight ,

you want to stop the ticking of snail-paced clocks ,

the prayers you say , tell nothing of prayers...

you cannot cook, with a zest , for those who are the salt and spice of your life ,

you do not feel you love anyone , and doubt if anyone loves you ....

your body should have slept but is conspiring to give you an infernal wakening time ,

you cannot drown yourself in your flooded , numbed , nothingness of thoughts...

books , babies , bars of chocolaty sins seem as if they would fail in consuming your naive hunger ,

there is no one to whom you could reveal just how you feel , every single time you felt like this...

you wish , it was night ,

you wish , you could lie on your bed , draw the blanket , squeeze yourself into the comfort of foetal rest ...

you pray feeble words , hope guilty hopes , seeking Him to hear , to see , to set you free ,
into that Sleep of death ; into that Life of no such days , such hours....

3 comments:

Materialmom said...

I am sure you have a fever. I'd recommend a hot, peppery South Indian rasam to blast whatever has got you down- be it high temperature or low spirits - right out of your system. Do cheer up

ThalassicReverie said...

:D
Yes, Good remedy.
Though I have never tasted it.

Materialmom said...

Reading this poem again after 8 years, I empathise so much more, and I think I know exactly what you went through. Reading my comment written all that while back, I regret that it sounds flippant. My wish to cheer you up is my only excuse.