How long is this posthumous existence of mine to go on?
With a mind to shreds torn,
And thoughts racing beyond my capacity,
A manic intensity,
An unending spiral of magnificent magical beauty,
How long, how long, how long,
Am I going to deny the reality of my tragedy?
Unable to trust my mind,
Beholden to it’s emotional intensity,
How can I question the nature of this tragedy?
And yet, again and again,
My thoughts bring up the idea of negative compatibility,
Of human creativity,
Beholden to social uppity,
Chained and limited,
Art is cremated,
By the same hands that once it created,
How am I to question my tragedy?
When I can feel in it endless beauty,
Beauty that comes at a cost,
The cost of creativity,
A life beholden to medicine,
To keep me from falling off the edge,
Headlong into life-threatening insanity,
That my friend, is negative compatibility,
Pain as part of the beauty,
Human existence,
The ultimate comic tragedy,
How long is this posthumous existence of mine to go on?
Where I fight death each day,
And reclaim myself,
Perhaps that’s the cost,
Of being born to do something great,
Or perhaps it’s the cost,
Of surviving everyday.
Anjali.
