Museless

A whole hour of shivering rage went past. And I never find any vent, save the ones who I must see again and again. I don't realise why I am incensed so easily. I scream and shiver. And they who are screamed at never fail to marinate me in guilt.

I needed to see other people, and things other than what was at home. I met old folks who insist that I look better than I have in ages, and I found it necessary to tell them that it is the food, and that I have started eating.

I looked at myself on the window of a car. Beard, acne, balding scalp. The old folks lied. I heaved a sigh as it sprinted across my head that they were amongst the only people that knew and liked me in the apartment. The others would meet me with their nonchalant smiles.

As I trudge through the city mainroads, I am trampled by the thought that I am without a muse. I have no thought to sail me through the day. I have nothing to do that I am proud of. I do not atone for severing ties with my folks. I do nothing. I do not read. I do not practise my music. I do not write. I do not keep up with the world. And when I am brought to face this truth, this that I already know and ruminate over, I am overcome with a rage that billows over the person who, in his kind philanthropy, took it upon him to let me know of the dereliction of my body and soul.

I want to give up my identity. My miserable love. My house. My education. This world.

The world seeths with a negativity that is undulating across my being. There is only angst, mistrust, apprehension and dirt.