I Die in a Sense

It is pretty weird, how every time I sit down to write a piece for Visual Verse, I realise that I am feeling a strong un-happy emotion. Either the coincidence is uncanny, or writing for Visual Verse is one of those few times when I take cognizance of the intensity of my emotions.

DEAD PEOPLES STUFF FOR SALE

The line made something inside me cringe – it could either be a physical organ, like, say, my liver (or, gut!) or it could be something non-existent living in one of the cells of my brain manifesting itself into a dense whirlpool of tar in my chest. Either way, it hurt.

There is no pain. There is denial. Maybe that is what hurts?

I feel, but do I?
I fell, but did I?

Can you name one person whom I can always believe in? Just one?

DEAD PEOPLES STUFF FOR SALE

What is it, after all, that even dead people would not want?

Or, What is it that only dead people would not want?

I recently read someone say that you can drown in the air – the more you breathe in, the deeper you get, the heavier.
Maybe, it was not gravity all these years.
We are all dying. Drowning.

Night is my only solace. I cannot see the misery on people’s face. Misery on dying people’s face who have forgotten they are dying, along with me; we are living in each other’s funeral and eating and dancing in there, hoping, no, waiting for a revival.

I Die in a Sense

We are dead people walking. Dissonance is in our (rotten?) blood. Our collective buried conscience is our slow death. We have named it – Living.

DEAD PEOPLES STUFF FOR SALE

When I die, sell my dreams
(I will leave them behind at the bottom of a deep deep well
To access them, just jump into the well
Keep in mind to do this with an urgency
And they will all be yours)