Tidbits 6

People like me ended up as poets. They had a lot to say but they didn’t like to speak all the time. Their silence was mistaken for ignorance. But they watched and reflected. They were always in the background analyzing things and trying hard to understand how they worked.

The concept of religion has always been beyond me. I guess people turn to God to have something to believe in. Something to put their faith in when everything looks down and something to blame when nothing’s going right for them.

Well, poets have their own religion. Their religion is words. They put their faith in every single one of them. They pray to them. They go on spiritual journeys and excursions to find them. There is a saying that one should follow his most passionate obsessions mercilessly. But what if these obsessions lead him to losing his mind?

Today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, yesterday. Time has never been more irrelevant than it is now. Do not believe the hype you see or read about in the news. Do not buy into the propaganda of radio stations and commercials. There are big promises for this world, promises that involve change and advancement.

But time has never been more irrelevant in the sense that everything is at our disposal now. Everything’s within our reach to the extent that we are able to recreate the same day twice in a row. We are able to live the same life for an entire week. There is no more mystery, there is nothing more worth going after.

Why were things like this? Why was it that the garbage man and the businessman both had to work, yet only one of them was respected? I watched him pick up other people’s garbage with his head held high. This was a man who was proud to work, proud of his work. His face showed no shame, only perhaps the slight dissatisfaction of not being able to work twice as hard to earn twice the measly bucks he collected.

And I watched the other, the corporate man, sitting with both legs on the desk in front of him, air conditioning and all, setting up meetings, complaining about his coffee, his employees, the market, saying he is never appreciated enough. These are prime examples of the best and worst of both worlds, the best being the lowly man who can come out of the underworld bearing his working kit on his back, the worst being the man coming from luxury and money yet simply taking it all in and doing nothing about it to improve himself.

I was caught between them, I wore their faces everyday, and their struggles meant mine. The fine line between their parallel worlds – slowly walking together without ever touching – was like little cracks in my words, fissures in my writing. The only way to fully understand them was by being a good poet, but hell, I was a mediocre one at best.

 

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