There’s a strange illicit irrational unforgivable anger I am living with these days.

Its buried way deep in the brain’s mantle, while cars and trains rush past happily on its surface and make me tick.

The best way to not notice it is to keep myself constantly busy. To not sit with an empty paper, pen in hand, to not write.

To not notice the build up. To not vent it out.

I know its irrational, but then so is religion. So is god. A lot of people pray everyday, prayer is that thing which makes you feel virtuous without having to give anything of yourself.

There are men and women who are self sufficient, whose anchor is not outside themselves, who ARE the anchor, for them and another.

They dont need religion. They dont need a lover. They dont need a soulmate.

They dont need poetry.

I don’t need religion. I don’t need a lover. I don’t need god. Nor a soulmate.

My anchor is your words.

Every morning, I get up and I read. What you wrote once upon a time. A milestone here. A candle there. An open wire carrying electricity here. A stone lying in my path guaranteed to stub my toe every morning. A ladder. A path. A memory. An embarrassment. A laugh.

Something. Proof that I’ve lived. Proof that I’ve been. Proof that I’ve known. Words beyond what anything I am capable of, but strangely feeling mine. Beauty i can hold. Run my hands over.

My anchor.

My prayer.

I drink the same water from the same well everyday. It leaves me thirsty for more while satiating me for the day.

Your poetry. Your jokes. Your funny stories. I choose a drink depending on my day. Or I let the well spring me a surprise.

What can I say about it which I havent already? Your poetry is so indelible, it has vanished into my memory, the way a dream slips away upon waking up because it is so deeply knitted into the fabric of your subconscious. Its impossible to verbalise but it was beautiful and that need not be said, you know instantly when you wake up. You search for the source, just what was it? But you find nothing.

Thats what it is.

But I dont dream anymore these days. I sip from the well but I am yearning for a waterfall to shake the water out of its stupor. I dont want to be lonely near the well, I want birds and animals and fish to come back, because a treasure left alone to myself for myself? I am not man enough to feast on it. And while its enough to sate me most days, i cant see it alone.

I need trinkles and bells so that the world wakes up.

My dreams have dried up. Its upto you.

To make me write again.