Maybe I’m too romantically inclined.
Is it too much to be asked,
to be ruined in mind,
wretchedly unfixed in state,
mad with inability,
scathing walls for a scent of the past.
Ah what a little neuroticism does for the soul.
If you can’t at all be haunted by something,
I fail to see how you could pique my interest.
It’s not that I want to heal you either,
but I do want my own misery to be reciprocated.
That kind of companionship,
the guarded chastity inspite of the allure,
wets the palate with prose.
They lied to you,
learning how to think slowly,
is the most profound thing you can do.
If this is default,
ignore the urge of society trying to change you.
There is only loss in between,
obscurity and events unseen,
when your focus is so blurred,
and speed is what you fiend.
Instead, slow your breath,
and take three more between them,
learn the art of slowing down time too,
so you comprehend events in micro-chasms,
so the movements of anything coming your way are intercept-able at will.
This includes your own thoughts firing at you,
your ego commanding incessantly,
your limbs going places they shouldn’t.
When you can slow it all down,
inversely, your speed will be imperceptible.
No one will believe in your cause,
the agenda will always surface to the top.
Instead of people empathising with you,
standing alongside you,
even if in disagreement with you,
they’ll see through your need for attention,
and treat you accordingly.
And how do we treat,
the most common seekers of attention,
that is, children?
Like they’re incapable
How ironic then,
that you act so childishly,
yet expect to be treated like a capable adult.
The lustre of the outside world has lost its appeal,
blossoming doesn’t mean anything more than a closer step to dying,
just another vying,
ornamental display of superficiality,
a one way ticket to mortality,
and when the petals wither away,
down drops the seeds of vitality,
ironically, that life giving force,
the soul of this fleshen cycle,
is always an inside thing.
Why then are you afraid of folding,
of caving inside until you are outwardly nothing.
Judge me as much as you want,
just don’t let me anticipate,
leave me to my anxiety,
a still lake,
cast not a stone with your glaring eyes,
it’s the ripple before it reaches me,
Quell your souls with this beautiful piece.
Procrastination isn’t so bad,
not especially in this world,
where you’re being dragged down rabbit holes of consumerism,
against your own will.
My indecisiveness and over analysis of the minutest details,
suddenly becomes genius.
The lack of impulse to dive into impulses is my greatest impulse.
Now, I’m not a spineless coward,
but a patient sage,
suddenly I’m not an emotional wreck,
nor do I throw tantrums with the best of them,
when I don’t get what I want,
but I’m a composed giant,
with far greater emotional intelligence,
than most of society.
How long will you let society,
quacks in academia,
and media lure you away from goodness,
from simplicity and minimalism,
from letting spiritual intelligence,
reign supreme over being an emotional simpleton?
My procrastination isn’t a problem,
a simmering of my soul,
bringing it to just the right temperament,
to resist authority.
It’s easy to remain unperturbed,
when you’re a far worse critic of yourself,
than they could ever be.
Amongst all the noise,
and scum scattered about,
I’m the fighting Temeraire,
carving up the sea.