I feel arms giving way to wings
an incessant urge to fly
scale heights that elevate
elevations that are high
…this high seems too high
bury me 10 feet under…
so I burrow the soil
boring through to Earth’s centre …
where I ache for the sky
I shall scream and my brain shatter into smithereens of sticky cerebral tissue that falls off my POP lined pink wall leaving slime lines behind … if I start to write one more butter won’t melt in your mouth, sweet, cream n pale yellow primroses post.
Oh! Please give me something sharp and edgy, something that is bereft of the cushion of niceness. I crave for a real conversation; a chance encounter with a stranger, a raw intellectual scuffle in a degenerate, run down urban wasteland.
I want to be scouring the underground art scenario, where artists and lovers of artists, have cerebral orgies, where I can just be the pseudo intellectual, striving to be a real one sitting in the doorway of university dorm, or a seedy café out of Zadie Smith’s “On Beauty”.
I want to be amongst Sinead O’ Connor hair women, their only adornments wood or stark metal earrings …no blood diamonds for them. Clothes in natural fibres and faces bereft of makeup; their asexuality… their desirability.
Give my mind an acid wash, I need to be drinking some hard stuff out of a plastic cup as I nod my head every time Kafka is mentioned …and say the word bug, Metamorphosis and Gregor Samsa, in that order. To take a big bite of a, tastes like cardboard , looks like nothing, nibble before someone draws me into a discussion about the ideological differences between Sartre and Camus. I would not know what to say… I am the pseudo, the aspirer the non-belonger who so wants to be them. The change may last only till the metamorphosis actually happens, and till I am one of them.
It is then I would want to go back to gracefully sit in a drawing room, legs crossed at the ankles, daintily sipping from Wedgewood cups and as I self-consciously put the ivory handle fork into my mouth, swallowing surreptitiously, without much outward sign… delicate bites of the delightfully fluffy cake, while expensively dressed women discuss the latest artist who opened at the new art gallery last week.
I do not belong here either; I notice my sofa is the closest to the door, yet again… I am on the periphery.
I feel trapped in this journey of metamorphosis where I suddenly do not know where I want to be, which world do I want to belong to, as I have always flitted from this world to the next, always looking on from corner sofas or in some cases a run-down puffy.
I want to metamorphosize… only if I knew from who to who from where to where, right now I am in a cocoon and don’t know much about caterpillars or butterflies… I just know the rebranding is on, the transmutation is happening… only once I reach the end of the process shall I know whether I am here… or that it is just another place from which I shall need yet another 100 days of rebranding!