Weary

Tea glasses clink as sweaty men bark politics and daily rot. Spaces are choking, gasping for air, clustered with things, gossip, bricks, men and their plans. Repelled by claustrophobia spaces long to feel thier empty selves.Men are wearing out in pants while decades meander in bazaar alleys. One man’s oxygen debt is another man’s unearned credit. Nurses are spanking newborns and scribbling death certificates with the same boredom. Arent you tired? I, you, us, them..we are all buried under pronouns. Isn’t it tragic that we know ourselves via the other? Can we ever know it? The inner most sanctum of isness. We’re are always around ourselves, the preoccupation of ten thousand things of our lives. Always deflected by words, clocks, sex, banks, drinks, friends, gods, pillows and plans. We’re always tending to, never reaching true being and rest. It is far easier to slay dragons and freeze time than to implode into oneself. Who is the Lionheart amongst us who is ready to give up being and non being thereby finding true rest. Who amongst us is thoroughly weary? Haven’t you had enough?
Akash Sinha.