an attempt to look at the life of a bipolar kid suffering from severe delusions of granduer, he is perhaps so lonely, its driving him to the boundaries of sanity. whats worse is that he's interested in philosophy.
he's been taking very strong drugs prescribed by some psychologist, that make his eyeballs sink deep into their sockets , and his inability to focus at anything at all doesnt let him sleep. he's incontinent.
need someone to tell me whats wrong in this, particularly since my company's editor rejected it saying it was "haywire". sad.
. rants invited.
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The Kid's Story ( title stolen from animatrix :P )
His eyes laugh as he waves his heart at her,
behind which a red storm brews,
an ocean he swallows each day,
for want of sense in insanity-now nausea,
his life is a second hand mechanical time bomb.
-insipid, bald, vapid.
with conditioned reality,unable to see,
incontinent and rusting,he stays on,
realising that he knows not,
knows that he can know not,
wired fences-trapped-wings cut off,
in rumi's field, beyond right doing and wrong doing,
runs skeltor, mythical, playful, wild
in his phantasmagoria-misunderstood, miserable, hapless
-joyful and stupid- juvenile-he knows.
and she's sweet too.
sharp and slender and sorrowful,
tender, wanting,
she opens her heart too,
she pretends.
-he knows, coz he does too.
coz he gawks and swims in her fantasy too
with the toys that make her joys,
then he returns to reality, to the emptiness,
in the world of failed giants-agape,
and keeps searching, alone, for respite,
from pointless ignorant brain-fart they call life.
-but sleeps peacefully alone and hangdog .
the illusion of thoughts, and the beauty in reality,
she doesnt want to know,
she's sunk in her own little world,
being the centre of the universe,
that she is not,
she's been playing for so long,
with a spherical sphere of clay.
-humming his dirge-he is now dead.
how sweet he sang too,
of an insane world lost in thoughts,
passively smoking reality,
between what is and what should be,
unaware of awareness,
of ludwig, plato, nihilism
and where cool green grass grew
and where he would lie
on a hill with voilets in blossom near him.
she laughs, not cry,on a love that never was hers,
he was the stuff dreams were made of,
she thought she was,
and now she sees through the gallimaufry-
he only showed her what she wanted to see
it was always her not he,
he was what she never could see.
and now when its all said and done,
she laughs more,
on a love that never was,
darn,
cig, weed, lsd, wine
And everything is fine.
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Linear Mode
