Bared..

One fine morning, just like the other fine mornings sans any fineness in them, as usual,

you wake up to a steady drizzle outside your window, and its more-or-less pouring the same way inside your nose as well and you realize, just like you do, all those rainy mornings of the 22 years you left behind, that you don’t really harbor the fancy poetic thoughts, as they usually do, for the monsoons.

That it’s one of those unfortunate mornings that witness the poisonus-est venoms of your persona laid out for the world to bear.

Everything from your hair to your appetite refuses to agree, and you find yourself muttering profanities to no-one in particular, to thin air…

You didn’t see me in the morning and in essence you actually wake up to me on such mornings and don’t even realize it. I linger around even when you are getting late for work, with your precious toast burned and the eggs under boiled.

You know you’re reckless with the car on such days, and I toss about in the pillion to the irrelevant heavy metal that plays on the stereo. You don’t know, you’re in one of your ‘heavy metal’ moods today.

Remember that character you read about in that nonsensical book you keep , the Queen, yes the one always eager to part her subjects with their heads, you remind me of her.

Don’t bother looking for my identity; you have enough to bother you already. I’m just a narrator of the mundane misery you go through every single day ( at least that’s what you’d like to think of me as now). I’m the pessimism in you, bared to the last thread. That orator inside your head that keeps reminding you of the antediluvian fears ‘ normally’ kept aside, when you’re desperately trying to fit in the ‘normal-ness’ around you.

I’m like that invisible layer of grime you subconsciously try to wipe off your face, every now and then. If that be the case, I might not even exist, mind you, but just be the symbolic ingratitude towards whatever sanity you’ve been bestowed with.

I’m that stench of self-obsession that refuses to leave your quarters most of these days.

I’m just a captive in the metaphors of a failed poet that you are. Don’t even try putting a pin on it. Which Might just as well start oozing of all your fears and the mercurial wrath you harbor, which , however benign they may be, shall continue to haunt you on the other side as well.

 I’m better left to rot on the other end of mirror.

Better put to sleep on the warmer nights when you occasionally pray by the bedside.