Expedition of the isolated

Updated: Jul 2, 2021


i.


My bed's starting to feel

like the deep blue ocean

I once painted with my fingers

on the ceiling of my room, with acrylic

that is beginning to chip off

from the sides

with time

and much like it.


ii.


My pillow is my tide

except it doesn't offer

any sense

of the usual temporality

expected of these brilliant forces

of nature.

It leads me further

into the vast unknown

of my Monday, Thursday, Sunday blues

of my desolate mind that wanders off every night

and accounts for nothing

beyond the erratic

waves of the now.

In search of an island of hope.

only to be trapped into an

endless bermuda

of its own creation

as I spiral down and struggle

to untangle

the last speck of my illusionary certainty

and all of

my fabricated reality

from the grip of another boundless, gaping unknown

over my head

looking down upon me

almost nonchalantly

passing a friendly smirk.



iii.


A happy family nests on my window pane

the littlest members knocking the glass playfully

with their tiny, shiny yellow beaks

lifting me like the waves did

with their wings and steady squeaking.

a gush of tranquility

seems to gingerly

find its path

in the deep blues and purples

of my prominent

snarling veins

mixing its aquamarine hues

with mine.



iv.


I never learned to swim

beyond rudimentary floating

nor to dislike the ocean, for that matter,

or its splendid enormity.



v.


I resolve to close my eyes

and sway like the soft, autumn feather

drifting with

the gentle flow

aimlessly, for yet another night

secretly hoping to be

found

this time

or to simply land onto what is

concrete

my island of hope.



vi.


"Come what may", I say

"won't we all be carried away, someday?"

I try to equip myself

with the unanticipated

(hasn't it always been that way?)

to stay afloat

for as long as it might take

on my snug ocean bed.



vii.


The sound of the calm

before the rising storm

resonates well within me

this time, however, I shut my door

clumsily rolling up

the washed out ends

of my baby pink flannel

upto knee length, allowing myself

to set foot, inch by inch

to drench

& focus on my sound,

balmy breathing

amidst the tender dance of the

ocean, pulsating

in

with

for me.



viii.


Today I will be the third force of nature

to be reckoned with

my pillow might take me

by the hand, only to bid me adieu-

like a parting parent, silently

whispering, "be back soon

from your precarious journey."

I will love

my ocean bed, all the same, nonetheless

for it embraces me

so lovingly, morning after the other,

night after night

washing off

all of my yesterdays

offering whatever little calm & comfort

it can

in a world that

often refuses to.

I found my island of hope.

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