My back to the wall, I have reached the end of the world. In sheer solitude, disturbed by a few forlorn stirs that I am presented, at odd junctures by life, I feel no urge to retort or complain. It feels trivial to doubt, if the journey has outcast me completely void or filled up to the brim. No more do I wish to bounce back or shade myself from the downpour. The sun is famished of its fury and the clouds of their shade.
The nomad in me is gaining strength. I am being rendered destitute on busy crossroads at feverish frequency. My pride and self-defense has been fleeced to bone. It seems ages that I have gazed at skies. I guess I had stopped holding fingers before this lifetime and it has been some time that I have lent out my hand. Outstretched arms and watery eyes have seemingly lost their heat. I do not melt any more.
Maybe I have come of age. I can no longer read fingers or decipher the language of silence. Pillars of flesh and blood chaining me find it amusing when I goof up on the names of my friends. The traveling sun tests me on its daily trip. Rocking my chair by the windowsill, I am blinded each day. Dates no longer matter. The russet glory will soon turn rancid and one day shall be returned to soil.
I am in a dilemma. Have I prolonged my stay or am I still wrapped in the cocoon, waiting to be liberated? And whether is it really a liberation that I am seeking or is salvation just another myth? I am not wary of the debate but am worried about the growing wrinkles. To plunge further, I need to fill my lungs with more air. The concern is that while the volume of air that can be filled is defined, I am vexed as I am ignorant of the precise figures.
Each day I quench my thirst scooping a handful of watery glass. Bruised, battered and bleeding, I trudge on succumbing gradually to my slavery.
As caravan dwindles on, I wait for the light to touch me, behold me and give me a name. I am waiting for the silence to call out and make me legitimate. The wait, though not endless would take its own sweet time to elapse. The call: will it be a hymn proceeded with music of harps or a harsh whisper is unknown.
As destined until then, I must bear the burden of my cadaver and devour on the same carcass. Lightheaded and mute, I carry on. Am I dead already?
No, not as yet.