I Am a Dead Man Speaking                                        
                                

                                                    by Rahul

I am a dead man speaking from the bitterest corners of the world of madness. I see here, in me, a sinking persona of hope and laughter. For, in thy laughter i was, till forever, from whenever. Lack of laughter comes out of many of the illnesses i have become part of. But then, how does it matter. I take pleasure in others degradation now. Thats a disease you may diagonise as, but then, how does it matter. Yes, i take pleasure in others degradation. That, makes me feel better. Better human. Better perspective i possess, and thus i am able to look at those points where everyone around me are flawed. They are terribly flawed. Flawed much better than me. I am flawed too. That makes me feel better. I am more human by being flawed. By knowing that i'm flawed. And knowing that there's no way one can escape my flaws. But there's a difference. Between ours and the others. We dont care. We acknowledge at times that we dont care. We are selfless. Selfless. We know it. I know it. We dont care, may be thats why. We, meaning, not more than 10-20 of us, we, signifying all those numberless mumblesome self irritating, outwardly pleasent, inwardly bitterly conscious ones that i know. Not many of us, may be. May be not even 10 of us. But there are us. There are few of us, who have suffocating dostoevsky's mad consciousness within. Completely illogical, extremely narcissistic, highly selfless, pleasure seeking, pain unavoidable ones of the present. I take my pleasure in them, in us. For, we are of the same kind. Kind and same. Mad and dying. Heartless and imaginative. Contradictory. Cuz time is not static. We are the time. We dont wear watches. We are the fiancés of the mental asylums, we would never marry, for we are better off, than the disciplined imaginations of people. Thats the base. Imaginations of people are disciplined. They love to be so. Its not a true love. Its a love out of obsessive compulsions. Mine too, may be, a similar love. Love always becomes obsessional, with passage of the time. Thats discipline. Grammar of discipline. Way of morale. That love is obsessional. Why, it can be otherwise too. Why love, any thing for that matter. Anything for that matter, can be the other way around too. They may call you mad. Pull you into the pre-imagined ways of imagination. One must resist it. One should try to resist it, for, its not possible at times, given the pre-conditions of the world we are part of. Thats why we are contradictory. We cant be otherwise. To love, is to be contradictory. To be in love with oneself is to love the self-degradation. To love is to painfully hate. And to live is to die. And to know of death is to know of living. Thats to live here. Love here. And all that one can do here. To the maximised potential of oneself. I write these lines for myself.

 

 

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