Pain

Most of us write to communicate . But the ‘writers’- the ones who deserve the description- lay bare themselves in what they write, risking ridicule, not preening for praise.


I strive to be a writer. Once in a while, I do post something intimately personal. So here goes.

The past few weeks I have been spending hours in acute pain. Once in a while, I meditate on the pain.

And sometimes a strange phenomenon takes place.The pain takes over like the other side of a mobius strip.

One such spell produced a few scribbled lines. They are reproduced below. They are fragile. So if you do gone to read them, handle with care.

This pain. This happy, happy pain.


Silence. Sunlight. This mote-speckled air.


What if I leave now? This sticky stubborn, sticky stubborn world.


Leave? You can’t leave. It ends. That’s all.


This pain. This happy, happy pain.


Free. I breathe free. Can’t stop? Not free?


Sun. This sun sets? Soon. Quite soon.


It left? No. Not true. The world turned.


Turn. World turn.


This pain This happy, happy pain.


Dark. Quiet dark . Slithering, smooth, slithering, smooth dark.


Breathe? Don’t. No air. No need.


I……n. O….ut. I…..n. O…..ut.


In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.


Not me. Not me. Who then? Who then?


This pain. This happy, happy pain.