Fugitive

I do not know if this is the end of my life

or if there is such a thing as an end.

I do not know much,

I do not see the point as such.

Slowly like a choking mist

I have felt loneliness envelop me.

And increasingly in that mist, I have lost myself

and found happiness or something like it.

And bit by bit, I’ve found myself

getting faded, always jaded,

till nothing remains except my name

which has always been the same –

and a few misinformed anecdotes in the memory

of some people few.

This life of mine has always been askew.

It started wrong, never took flight,

I persevered but it never felt right.

Bones and dust, and life and rust,

all getting jaded, perpetually faded.

Like the forgotten memory of a bad play,

I disappear in small pieces and bits.

And in the timeless depths of chasms between those pieces –

I look to find happiness.

Or atleast something that feels a little like it.

*

5.50 AM

12^th February, 2012