ஒரு கைதியின் புலம்பல்கள்

Sobriety They count in days and years. Somewhere it’s taboo; elsewhere, it’s coveted. I started counting— sunsets accumulated. Maybe it’s healthy. Maybe she feeds on my soul.   Would Sisyphus care? Is the boulder more important? Would he not kill Apollo for Dionysus and pray to Camus?   Food, drink, and the sweet melancholy of silence— my holy trinity. Trinity, I shan’t give you up, not for money, not for fame, nor for a threesome.   I put my boots on and brought her home— a fourteen-year-old single malt.

Am I a racist to have a type? There is Japanese, American, Canadian, Scottish, Indian, and much more… Do preferences make me a bigot? I shall pick a Scot over a Yank—any day— only because she sat by me: day or night, winter or summer, Monday or Sunday, as my muse, as my ambrosia. I hold her, breathe her, taste her. Oh, Aphrodite, let thee not be jealous of her hips— the sturdiest, glossiest, most intoxicating. I sprinkle water upon her, only to see her dance— her erotic curves and shape. My courtesan in retainer. Never will I grown weary of you. Many came; a few competed. A handful imprisoned me in exotic foreplays— only for days— before vanishing into the abyss. I shall never forget you, my lass. Oh, my Almighty, let me be with thee when I draw her my last breath.

I stared into the abyss, With two pairs of eyes, holding her hand. To make the void bright and safe — I presumed. Crossed the hounds of Hades, Cold. With my hands between my thighs, With the caress of my lifeless duvet, Alone in a desolate desert. Did she disappear? Could she comprehend? Maybe I fantasise utopia. Did I forget — Breathing and living, Smiling and joy, Screaming and pain Ain't the same. She — my chalice — and my tears, You all deceived me, Failed to hold, ease, and relieve me of my prison. Is this a prison, purgatory, dream, Or a sick joke? Maybe almighty, maybe aliens, or even evolution — Who is this morbid ringmaster? Am I part of the one? Or will I rot in the ground? I doubt I care — let me be free.

I procrastinated for days, years – even seconds And finally, Rockstar* was on. Maybe procrastination is a blessing It was a solution Or maybe it was an escape Let me not procrastinate. Let me pick up a copy of Anna Karenina Or should I wait? But until when? Until Anna gets to the train station Or until Jordan meets his muse – Pain. * Rockstar (2011), directed by Imtiaz Ali; music composed by A. R. Rahman.

We can see different breeds of people: the social media fakes—the flashy the photographers—the wannabes the families—the deal-finders the bros—the pasty white ducks the artists—the living the drunks and vagrants—the peaceful and I—stuck in limbo…