How’s everything else?

Very few things withstand the weight of regular life

It pulls everything down with it.

But, yet, that one thing remains.

Still burning. Still standing. Still seeking.

Unbothered.

—

Many a sleepless night, I have wondered

Just like the stubborn wrinkle on a freshly pressed shirt,

that refuses to get flattened,

Why won’t this one go?

Why does it refuse to listen to everyone else?

—

I have tried to kill it many times, I do it even now.

None of the usual tricks work.

Sex, Alcohol, Money.

These things mean nothing to it.

—

The problem is that,

this thing, that refuses to die,

has a voice, and wants to speak,

differently.

—

I realize now,

that I have destroyed

and abused myself

for not wanting to accept,

this Voice Is Me.

—

Which, of course is the tragedy of of it all.

Without the Voice,

I am a neatly ironed shirt without any wrinkles.

Which, of course then means,

I am a sheep.

—

I hate sheep and herders of sheep

All smiles.

No wrinkles.

No life.

I dread being sheep

—

But tomorrow, I shall do different.

I shall let this voice speak,

tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow will be different.

I hope.

—

But anyways,

how’s everything else?