to have less

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i googled ’embracing the rain’.

the mid-day naps which invariably end abruptly with headache and listless sitting on the bed, accompanied with thoughts along the lines of:
‘what am i doing with my life?’

the immediate and uncontrolled urge to plug the holes in conversation known as ‘silence’ and speak things which have not received adequate thought in sobriety, culminating in the mind, as is always the case, a few moments later than it should have, as regretful sentiments of:
‘why did i say that?’

the need for security and avoidance of blame; as if by being uncertain and ignorant, the liabilities that far too often stem from a lusty desire to sound erudite can be absolved by prefacing with:
‘i don’t know, but i think…’

the brooding thoughts of enmity, the breeding ground of contempt; pride that wants us to stand tall indignantly when we should stoop down with humility and seek forgiveness and reconciliation; pride that gently whispers in our ears:
‘i deserve better than that.’

the moments of distrust in the things that have been revealed; the thoughts and senses which are still haunted by the spectres of old known as skepticism and cynicism, making them dull; causing the eyes to see but not perceive, the ears listen but not hear, and the mind to know but yet still struggle to believe, inadvertently disparaging His work with doubts of:
‘how can i possibly know?’

 

all these, i confess.

all these, i pray to have less.

just another

what am i doing with my life?
whispering to myself all these lies,
justifying all my withheld tithes.
see not this pandemic that runs rife?
just another confused youth

time after time, ‘i don’t have time’.
forced into a rush, all i do is whine.
rebuffing concerns, i declare ‘i’m fine’.
i had no right, the fault was mine.
just another incorrigible sloth.

dancing through calamity in pure bliss,
completely oblivious to the serpent’s hiss.
perhaps it’s time i come to confess:
wholly foolish; and wholly careless.
just another play-pretend sleuth.

yet logic reasons to me,
and the path is plain to see.
giddily, i shudder with mirth;
this pained comedy of the mind’s labyrinth,
its vain portrayal of a polymath.

maybe.
maybe just maybe.
i’m just another sociopath.

the thief of time

here rests the thief of time.
he sought every single dollar and dime;
perennially procrastinating and delaying,
perpetually doing some other thing.

‘i’ve still got time!’ he always thinks,
unaware of all chrono-spacial links.
‘i won’t need forty minutes to get there;
half that time i can spend elsewhere!’

one thing led to another;
the dominoes toppled down further.
overestimating becomes habit thereafter;
whilst misjudging value becomes character.

‘ah i needed forty minutes after all;
hey why isn’t anyone else at the hall?‘
watch the clock let out a ring;
the butterfly effect is in full swing.

tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow;
it’s the oft-trodden path of sorrow.
don’t bite the bait;
time does not wait.

here rests the thief of time,
his whole life a mere pantomime.
the glaring regret on his epitaph:
‘i wish i walked down a different path.’