Dust

I am asthmatic. At least on paper. I never really get a bout of wheezing unless i get caught in a dusty environment. They say i am allergic to dust. I am fascinated by dust. Dusty hard-bound red books in tall library shelves. Dusty windowpanes where you can behind streaks of light when you run your fingers over them. Dusty fans which look like pinwheels as they spin above you as you stare aimlessly. Those shiny particles of dust that look like floating honeydew in blocks of sunlight that stream through the leaves.

Dust. I hate dust too. It is so static. I denotes stagnancy. Oblivion is difficult, but dust pisses me off. 'Cause you remain as a relic begging to be remembered, not yet lost, refusing to get lost in time. I hate blowing the dust off every time. Though i like seeing the dust play in light again.

And at times, the dust gets to me. I suffocate. The air grows thicker and my lungs go so small it can hardly go smaller to push the air out. The air stagnates within my body. Sediments dust. I cough, but it is an exertion. I try to breathe, but why is the air so fucking heavy?!!

I am stifled. Straitjacketed. The room is big. The windows open. Words float around like those shimmering particles of dust. Golden specks of happiness. I am disgusted. The air suffocates me. Why are they stealing the air i breathe? Or is it that the air is too thick with words when i dont want to speak any? The windows are open. I suffocate.

I hold a kerchief to my nose. To keep away the dust. And the stench. I walk out graciously.

Ctrl. Alt. Shift. Escape. Delete.

I am what i was

I was Nature.
Air, Water and Earth, wafted and baked under the fiery sun.
I was the primeval sea.
Pangaea.
I was the mucky gene pool where life took form.
I was life.
I was the Primordial Sin.
I was the 160 ton sandstone boulder that crowned the Pyramid.
I was also the slave who dragged it and the mason who chiseled it into shape.
I was gunpowder.
I was fireworks, and so was i cannon-fuel.
I was the besieged.
I was the battering ram that broke through the ramparted gateway.
I was the river.
And the sea, and the ships that sailed across them,
Unfurling their sails to catch the wisps of air
That I breathed out.
I was the gentle summer rain.
And the scorched plain that begged for salvation.
I was salvation.
I never knew who I was.

Anyway, leaving behind the cliched rhetoric, here's what I know what i really was.
I was born in 1947 (No... this has nothing to do with "Midnight's Children"... i consider it a grossly overrated book).
I was 16 when they napalmed Vietnam.
I was 20, when it was the Summer of Love.
"If you are going to San Fransisceo... Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair..."
I was a hippie.
I was living-in, being-in during the Second Summer of Love.
I was arrested during the Emergency.
I was silenced.
I died in 1988 in a freak accident involving a stationary car, a sinking freight train and a ship that derailed at the docks.
And i was reborn.
I am what I was.

I am the wind. I am the rain. I am the silence of the sun that leaves your shadow on the plain.

Gall bladder

Listen to my voice.

Yeah the vicious screech you hear at the back of your head.

Noise.

Static in the radio station.

Hear it.

Try to listen to it, rather than tuning into another channel.

Can you hear the words?

I cant hear them myself.

I spat them out in such spite.

Such anger and frustration.

No one tunes into noise anyway.

And no one can tell channels apart if there was

No noise in between.

I am not philanthropic.

I do not claim to be a bluddy Messiah.

I am so selfish i keep my words to myself,

While i tune into FM stations.

And when i do speak,

It comes out

Unpractised

Garbled words.

They forsake me.

Cheats.

And i scream out

'Cause i cannot cry.

The screech.

Its drilling through my ears.

Its too sharp

Sharp as cut glass

And clear

In spite of all the disturbance.

Pain.

Tune it.
Tune out.

Switch off.

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