Free Will is a myth.
I thought I made choices.
Maybe they made me.

-

I fear this world,
their opinions.
What they make
of my actions,
what they make of me.

I fear this world,
their imposition.
What they make me do,
what they make me into.

I walk in broad daylight today,
a soulless body, made out of a mould.
I rot in the darkness tonight,
a lifeless stench, covered in mold.

The only way out?
A mask.
Where they wouldn't
know it's me.

I wear a mask,
so I'd know it's me.

Funny thing, this mask.
It conceals my facade beneath.

-

Fifty shades of grey.
PS: Not an erotica.

Fifty shades of grey,
between all that
black and white,
between all that's
dark and bright.

You crave for the binary.
A coin toss.
A 0 or a 1.
You dwell on the extremes.

But this world's a palette.
And you're the blank canvas.
You are blinded by the spectrum,
blinded to those fifty shades of grey.

Might I remind you,
Grey is not just
in between black & white.
But a blend of both.

-

This very moment,
this space between
two thoughts,
this silence,
this abundance,
this is where
I find my home.

Seconds may be
the currency,
but time really
lingers in the
interspaces
between thoughts.

I wish to be thoughtless,
and hence timeless.

My home lies here.
My thoughts are
but a cage
posing as a refuge.

-

-

I'm the wind and the sea.
And that's who I'll be.
I'll sway with the wind,
dance with the sea,
but I'll never let either
uproot what's me
or what's left of me.

-

What's the price of your coffin?
Is it your life?
Or your death?

-

I grew up watching this world.
Just like you and the kid next door.
My personality, a sum total
of what I've been exposed to,
and what I made of it.

I'm made of what I made of my past.
And what I made of my past
is how not to be and not how to be.
And that, my friend, is as sad as it gets.

What I've made of the humans
around me is mostly
how not to be like one.

I guess I'm a human,
but not a human BEING.
Yet.

-

People understand you best
when it's their only option.
If there's an option to leave,
to abandon, to withdraw,
they wouldn't risk the effort
to understand you better.

On days when I fear
being understood,
I lay out options
on a platter,
for you to abandon me.
To save you the effort
to understand me,
and to spare me
from slavery.
For those who understand us
enslave something in us,
as Gibran said.

And when you do leave me,
I fear abandonment.
Quite the irony.

Am I being misunderstood?
Or do I miss being understood?

-

I wonder if the birds
are far too advanced
to fathom for us,
that we mistook
their streetlights
for stars?

Or what if stars
were lanterns
held by the Gods
to watch over us
in the dark?

Or what if Gods
were guardians
of the endless
vacuum up above
and all the chaos
down below?

Imagination runs amok,
tonight of all nights.
Who's to deny a parallel
universe where this
might all be true?

-