Attachment to self.
Detachment from self.
And growing between them,
indifference.
T.S.Eliot completes his three conditions,
conditions looking alike yet differing completely,
flourishing “in the same hedgerow”.
(Little Gidding)

Our self, the self we, you and I have.
Don’t we, at times, get afraid of the shadows
of the self we cower in?
We now have allowed, majestically,
the shadows to choke the true self, our
very own, to
stay unbridled, in that murky
prominence.

Within it’s exteriority, the self searches aimlessly
the consolations, the contours of questions
it nonchalantly negated in it’s self-revelation.
You have intellectual emptiness,
ruthlessly muffling the consoling cobwebs,
symbolic of unmet interiors.

Jaded self walks with reveries of escape towards
pyramids standing firm, queering the uprooted,
self-controlled concealments.
Don’t fear.
Go to the instantaneous frames of our sagging memory.
Futile alienation, awfully busy.

This oasis of perfect self where we look at the
definition of logics of illogical judgments, has
started seeking extraordinary pleasures
in drooping, known unrealities.

Uprush of what we are never comfortable with
and what we have never been uncomfortable with
come galore,
our morbidities are self-swinging
between the limits we neither defined nor redefined.

Doddering within us is the desire and
it’s unrecognizable destructiveness.
Self- choosing to dissolve into it.
What lords over what?

Inconspicuous subterranean turmoil, all over, smiles,
peevishly, at the anguish of psychic contents,
their residues, disintegrating our
whole self, leaving us in ecstasy
of a veiled lurch.

Through an array of unarranged questions,
history has adjudged, as part of incoherent deliria,
the ebbs and the flows
we measure with our massy self, disjunctively.

Self relaxes amid fetishistic enthrallment of
the relaxing anxieties,
we with our imprisoned self look into
the meanings in the captive arenas, we
once determined for the survival of our self.

Your strife is not hidden;
emanating from
the clotted boundaries the self never enters.
Still, you don’t talk of it.

We prefer to sit by the window of our self and
stare in the dark, unable to make out:
“Which is worse: The dark inside, or the darkness out.”
("......."Joseph Brodsky)
?…..?
inimical,
inimical to the self, that has been so
unfaithful, so traumatizing to us
strives alone,
distracting us all from what we have tackled
all along.

Whose shadows are we trying to trace in ?…….?
In order to get our true self back.

The homeless question continues.