Rage

Anger is rage with a cause
Anger is rage for a reason
Anger beyond anger
is the reason for man's survival

angerisangerisangerisangerisangerisangerisangerisangerisangeris
angerisangerisangerisangerisangerisangerisangerisangerisgood

And in today's world
On a judgemental stage
Men of peace do often get angry
They never are victims of rage

sometimespeopleclosesttoyouwillhurtyouandtheywillhurtyouinwaysyouwillenever
recoverfromandyouwillhavenootherrecoursebuyttohatethemandforgivethematthesametime
angerisangerisangerisangerisgood

Anger is not a thing of fools
if anger is true
if anger is pure
Anger is an immaculate tool

itsdiffuclttoexpressyourselfwhenyoucantevensapceyourwordsbecauseyouar
esohorriblyangvryandfrustratedatpeoplefordoingtthingstoyouyouwishedwer
eneverdonetopanyoneyouknow

An angry man is a discontent man
is a man of wounds and scars
is a man who sleeps not well at night
stares back at nightly stars

itstoomuchtoexplaintoanyonewhatmakesyouryatnightwhatmakesyouthinkandnot
sleepandwhysometimesyoujustneedfriendsandhwyyousometimescantaffordtogetangry

The purest emotion of them all
when a man is truly a man
True anger is always unbiased
of the mighty human clan



ed lithium

Too much

I think I have had too much. I am frustrated of complaining  and writing about every problem I have. Sometimes you have to put your foot down and decide that it is enough.

I think I might already be defeated. And it sucks.

Man on my edge

I see myself too clearly now

And my heart aches, it’s tired of beating for a man who has taken so many beatings himself

My lungs rest in their sombre mood

Why breathe for a man who can’t catch his own breath?

My eyes, they droop, and my eyelids rest in grimace

Hidden well between the wrinkles on my face

What is left for me to see now, I have lost all courage to see and observe

The world spins quietly for me, a man who has lost his place in the world

And my tears seem to make my vision a bit blurred

I know deep down, there has to be a single last thread of hope and joy, which I can cling to selfishly, unabashedly,

But I don’t search, out of the fear of finding my own soul shedding a tear

The world can push me to a limit, which I cannot accept as my own

And after the limit, I am a free man, a wandered child, battered and grown

Ed lithium

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My Friend Grunting

And then slowly my heart sunk. I woke up, and I hoped, like the end of all frightening stories today, there will be a twist in the tale, there will be a red herring, and I will not die. But this was all too real. And I knew I was minutes away from death.

Days before, I had already died once. It would seem like good friends always come through for you, no matter what. But my good friends hid their heads in the sand once I bit the dust. I was left alone. And so I decided to make myself a new friend. Every one needs friend they can call their own. Some times, when the world deals you a bad hand, you have to assume the impossible is extremely probable.

And so I sat down, and I stared at the wall endlessly for hours, neither blinking nor crying. And I felt sorrow, I felt pure unadulterated grief. But I did not cry. I stopped myself from crying, when all I wanted to do was break down into pieces and wish to be able to pick myself up. I let the sorrow build up inside of me. I let the desperation, the frustration, the anger and isolation mold up inside my soul, right next to my heart, my heart burnt as my emotions took refuge near by. My hands shook, as anger very quickly took over every emotion in my brain and my eyes went blood shot. And I realized it was now time to make my new friend.

And so I cried.

My new friend was made out of sheer sorrow, grief and anger. Frustration and desolation gave it a heart. Isolation gave it a soul. My new friend was extremely dark, with red shot eyes, just like mine. Just like an angry friend is supposed to have. He had almost no form except to me he looked like a very dark cloud. His feet never touched the ground, and he seemed to hover inches above the earth, with a aura so dark, it made me blink. My new friend was dense, and he was speechless. All he was was a reflection of me in an extremely dark mirror.

The first few days he simply floated around with me, not blinking, not breathing, emotionless as a rainy cloud. All he did was grunt, and he grunted every time I felt a pang of pain- either from anger or hurt. I did not mind the dense entity follow me around every where I went, even when I slept he would simply stand besides the bed and stare down at me.
Grunting.

After all, a friend is supposed to be a dense, mute, grunting companion.

It was after a few days that I realized a few things. My friends came back to me. It grunted. My girlfriend came back to me. It grunted. My family accepted me back. It grunted. Every time I heard it grunt, I felt grief, I felt anger, I felt frustration all over again. I felt trapped in an overwhelming sense of guilt, every time it grunted.
I was unquestionably trapped. I tried my best to smile after things became alright again. I tried my best to keep happy thoughts lingering in my brain, when fate decided it was supposed to be nicer to me. When things were happening as I always hoped, I could feel no hope. My new friend was now getting denser by the day. Its eyes, coal shot red, widened by the minute. And with each second, I could see a very thin smile develop on its formless face.

My friends were confused about my depression. My girl friend left me again, unable to deal with my erratic mood swings and rage tantrums. My family stuck out with me the longest, and tried to get me all help possible. I visited doctors and I saw psychologists. They poked me, gave me pills and even shot radiation through my brain to confirm I was still in control of my own sanity. They all looked down at the chart and sighed. And with that my family lost hope, and lost interest. I was now back with my friend. Grunting.

And today, I can hear its grunting right next to my shoulder. Its getting louder. I am getting weaker. I did not foresee the fact that I had made a monster, who was, without doubt, hundred percent anger, grief, desperation and isolation. And it fed on exactly the same. It needed me to be depressed. It needed my to be suicidal. The more I cried, the more it grunted. My friend. It wanted to see me suffer.

And so I lie in my bed today, very sure of the fact that this is not all just a simple nightmare, but exactly what would happen if I befriended depression. My friend, my monster, my demon now haunts me every day and not day.

Every Calvin is not meant to have a Hobbes.


Ed Lithium

Manmadhan

    I think I am going crazy.

    The pitter-patter of little feet would have made me smile before. Today, however, I am paralyzed. With each childish footstep and the following innocent giggles, my heart sinks and I rethink every single intention of mine to marry my fiance.

     Trust me, Viraj, you will see it. You will definitely come face to face, and you will be scared. You will be scared Viraj, and you will not know what you should do. And that is what it does, that is what it wants to do all along. It will play with you, and it will make you question every thing you ever felt about her. 


     The dark room is not dark enough, and I soon realize, finding me crouching on the cold marble floor would be nothing besides child's play. I see the child's chubby little foot in the family mirror in front of me, and then I see the cold silver steel for a bit more than a single instance. Something about the way the steel shone, made me  sweat, and it made me gasp.
     And one gasp is enough. The footsteps stop. The giggles cease. Through the corner of my eyes, I see a small little curly haired head turn.
     I try to not look directly at it, and end up gazing at its smile. And what bothers me most was, how even while the tiny little cherub hands reached slowly for the silver steel, it's smile was undeniable child-like. Innocent.

      Not just a little kid, Viraj, Manmadhan.  

     Never did I think, I would believe in such old wives tales. However, in this case, the old wives weren't paying the price for love. It was simple. And incredible. And people somehow fail to see that incredible is used in a negative connotation. The legend was well to the point, Manmadhan would do anything to see true love. Armed with a silver steel bow and arrow, Manmadhan would not smile all the time.

     I am telling you, I don't think you love her. Don't go ahead with this if you have even one small ounce of doubt. 


      But I love her.

      I see a shadow sweep past the wall in front of me and it comes to a rest in front of the old Victorian mirror. I can see it now.
     A three foot fair skinned child, curly golden hair swaying with the wind that didn't exist. All it wore was a pitiful white diaper with an enlarged silver steel pin, and I can see some vague undiscriminating stains on the white cloth, which look unusually like dried blood. On its chubby back, it sports a silver steel container full of fine arrows that seem to shine in an unholy eerie mist, which surrounds Manmadhan itself. Till now I can see its back alone, but it soon it steps out from behind the wooden desk it had hid itself behind.
     A smile that every mother would be proud of, a shining silver steel bow rests within its hands. Its hands rested well on its chubby stomach and it breaks out into a nice little smile. I am almost mesmerized as it slowly pulls back the arrow with unexpected dexterity. It is not holy, it is now sacred. I can see the evil that it exudes from within, with its childish smile and the unearthly giggle.

       I am extremely afraid now. But I cannot move. I am forced to think. I definitely do love her. I have loved her from the day I met her. I have always called her up every day and told her how much I loved her. She knows I love her. I have always made it very clear. I love her.
   
       The arrow strikes me clean in between my eyes. And so does something else.

        Do I, really?


      I open my eyes and I see her, standing over my head, crying. She hugs me as soon as I can get up. She explains how everyone found me unconscious in the old attic next to the old Victorian mirror. I touch my forehead and I find no mark of an extremely sharp silver steel arrow. She explains how the doctors have no explanation for it besides extreme stress. I confess, to myself, I am baffled as well. But some how things seem clearer now.
     I look to my right and I see a mother holding her new born son, and crying in joy. I see the father doing the same as well. A fair skinned little child, that looks me directly in my eye.

     ' I don't want to marry you.' I find myself saying. And I know she will ask me my reasons very soon. I am very clear. I know exactly what to say.


Ed Lithium