Essay 1
Poet, Lover, Lunatic
I don't know where all my thoughts wander. In a span of two minutes where I tried to sleep by closing my eyes, I thought of narration (as I was trying to sleep listening to a bedtime story in calm app), imagined how I will narrate a story to our children, will I be a good story teller, how can I be a better story teller when their mother is already a good one, I thought of sound modulations that I may bring in my narration (I literally imagined those sound modulations), then I thought of whether I should tell them fairy tales, because I know those form a wrong understanding of the world, creates a neocolonized mind, then I thought that I should tell them the stories or else they won't be able to understand and recognise one of the most effective methods used to shape and dominate minds, then I told to myself that I should deviate from the traditional way of raising children by teaching them not to discriminate, and then I thought about rights, I thought that I should teach them that their rights end at the tip of the nose of another person, then I changed my mind and decided to teach them in a different way that your right ends where you begin to violate other person's right, then I thought about us, I thought of three things and compiled it into a poem.
Our rights end where
We begin to violate another's.
Me loving you, is my right,
As I am not violating your rights.
You loving me back, is your right,
As you aren't violating his rights.
But your father’s efforts to separate us
Isn't his right,
As he is violating both our rights.
Then I thought of publishing the poem, finally I thought "where the hell am I going with my mind?" Then I thought of checking the time taken for all these thoughts from the time seeker of the bedtime story, and when I saw 2 minutes I thought of telling you.
I have only one question.
Am I mad?
This will happen if, as wished by Edgar Allan Poe, everyone explains the process of writing a poem. In this era of prose poetry, the only process that precedes a finished poetry is a raw uncontrolled transcendent thought.
I don't know where all my thoughts wander. In a span of two minutes where I tried to sleep by closing my eyes, I thought of narration (as I was trying to sleep listening to a bedtime story in calm app), imagined how I will narrate a story to our children, will I be a good story teller, how can I be a better story teller when their mother is already a good one, I thought of sound modulations that I may bring in my narration (I literally imagined those sound modulations), then I thought of whether I should tell them fairy tales, because I know those form a wrong understanding of the world, creates a neocolonized mind, then I thought that I should tell them the stories or else they won't be able to understand and recognise one of the most effective methods used to shape and dominate minds, then I told to myself that I should deviate from the traditional way of raising children by teaching them not to discriminate, and then I thought about rights, I thought that I should teach them that their rights end at the tip of the nose of another person, then I changed my mind and decided to teach them in a different way that your right ends where you begin to violate other person's right, then I thought about us, I thought of three things and compiled it into a poem.
Our rights end where
We begin to violate another's.
Me loving you, is my right,
As I am not violating your rights.
You loving me back, is your right,
As you aren't violating his rights.
But your father’s efforts to separate us
Isn't his right,
As he is violating both our rights.
Then I thought of publishing the poem, finally I thought "where the hell am I going with my mind?" Then I thought of checking the time taken for all these thoughts from the time seeker of the bedtime story, and when I saw 2 minutes I thought of telling you.
I have only one question.
Am I mad?
This will happen if, as wished by Edgar Allan Poe, everyone explains the process of writing a poem. In this era of prose poetry, the only process that precedes a finished poetry is a raw uncontrolled transcendent thought.
👏👏👏
ReplyDelete👌👌
ReplyDelete👏👏👏👍
ReplyDelete