It's repeating,
everything.
time winding and unwinding itself;
this impenetrable loop
I don't understand.
the cars in my neighborhood do not honk today, it is silent.
but this silence is not calm,
It's deathly.
this silence talks and mourns and wails and howls;
in anguish;
Of loss.
loss of lives and jobs and hope and the State's brain
where religion and rallies hold more value than mortality and families.
and I a mere bystander
witnessing the losing war in front of my eyes, dissolved in the blanket of its privileged lens.
for it can revolve only 360 degrees of the vicinity of my home
with parents' broken relationship, zoom lectures with some friends and acquaintances, the ambiguity in the air and the sheer despair.
For sometimes it feels that my privileged struggles are the biggest and the saddest,
but then I realise that writing this poem from the corner of my balcony is the most sheltered and an unfair act.
Is it or is it not?
for I am trying to weave suffering into flowery cum impactful jargon
and subject it to slam poetry.
but I don't want to stop writing,
for art kept me going;
last year, maybe this year, and more to go, who knows?
for I might exist today and not tomorrow.
i shall write about it today, might not tomorrow.
I shall escape through art
But will the world be happy from the start?
I wish to know,
I don't know.
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