What if…


Life is “posthumous”. Charged and fined by the nuerons in the cavity where a snail canvasing on high notes and low chasms is saying “Hey, you are a failure.”  —  Oh Allah what really is happening? Why can’t I just well calm down? Am I really a failure. Though stories do come to me I realized that writing to me is hard or well at times hard. As in I find it easy and hard. I was feeling a certain pressure on my spine; that unraveled or raveled snail shell that looks like a sea shell starting out in a womb until it reaches the umbilical beach and propels on an ocean.  A Womb to Womb voyage but then again I guess free world is both encapsulated and unhinged. But I don’t understand why I am running on a difficult fever that is worse than the fevers I usually get because there I know; you know the feeling of knowing the not-knowing. You don’t personally meet the allergies or bacterium but hey you know some things. But here I feel like that annoying light bulb that’s white and cold and so intimidatingly running out of lung power that I feel swallowed by the flashing exhibitionism of its demise. Why do I feel so dejected? Oh Allah why? What am I going to do? Shall I join NaNoWriMo or just keep on collecting snippets like laundry pins, stapler pins. leaf pins, broaches or pieces of lined notebook paper? Why do I read so slow? Or too fast? Like I am a jerky testing a steam automobile?  I feel sometimes scared of reading as if I will not succeed in it though I want to read at times very much. So, Allah what is the what if is my life not begun or is it just passing like those trains you see that just go and don’t seem to stop ever…

One thought on “What if…

  1. Babies have not learned restraint and so their cries, be it a wet diaper, hunger, sleeplessness, they’ll wail away about it. We adults just gripe, groan, toss and turn. But sleepiness dies make for a great poem! Warm milk, inGod’s night, so perfectly punctuated indeed…. Sleep, or write. You did a great job here.

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